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The Fire Within 

By 

Patricia Wentworth 

u 

(Mrs. G. F. Dillon) 

Author of “A Marriage under the Terror,” etc. 


" Quench thou the fires of your old gods, 
Quench not the fire within 

Matthew Arnold. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 
New York and London 
Cbe Imlckerboc&er press 

1913 



Copyright, 1913 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 


'Ebc fmtcfterbocfeer fcrees, Hew Iflorfe 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

Mr. Mottisfont’s Opinion 
Nephew 

OF 

HIS 

i 

II. 

David Blake . 




18 

III. 

Dead Men’s Shoes . 




30 

IV. 

A Man’s Honour . 




40 

V. 

Town Talk 




56 

VI. 

The Letter 




66 

VII. 

Elizabeth Chantrey 




77 

VIII. 

Edward Sings . 




9 i 

IX. 

Mary Is Shocked . 




107 

X. 

Edward Is Put Out 




120 

XI. 

Forgotten Ways 




134 

XII. 

The Grey Wolf 




143 

XIII. 

March Goes Out . 




156 

XIV. 

The Golden Wind . 




163 


iii 


Contents 


iv 


CHAPTER 

XV. 

Love Must to School . 

PAGE 

. 171 

XVI. 

Friendship .... 

• 179 

XVII. 

The Dream .... 

. 188 

XVIII. 

The Face of Love 

. 199 

XIX. 

The Full Moon . 

. 207 

XX. 

The Woman of the Dream . 

. 214 

XXI. 

Elizabeth Blake . 

. 225 

XXII. 

After the Dream 

. 236 

XXIII. 

Elizabeth Waits . 

• 243 

XXIV. 

The Lost Name . 

• 258 


The Fire Within 









\ 









The Fire Within 


CHAPTER I 

MR. MOTTISFONT’S OPINION OF HIS NEPHEW 

As I was going adown the dale 

Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale, 

As I was going adown the dale, 

Adown the dale of a Monday, 

With never a thought of the Devil his tricks, 

Why who should I meet with his bundle of sticks, 

But the very old man of the Nursery tale. 

Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale, 

The wicked old man of the Nursery tale 
Who gathered his sticks of a Sunday. 

Sing derry down, derry down dale. 

/‘"'\LD Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked over the 
edge of the sheet at David Blake. 

“My nephew Edward is most undoubtedly 
and indisputably a prig — a damned prig,” he 
added thoughtfully after a moment's pause for 
reflection. As he reflected his black eyes danced 
from David’s face to a crayon drawing which 
hung on the panelled wall above the mantelpiece. 
“His mother’s fault,” he observed, “it ’s not 

i 


2 


The Fire Within 


so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, 
which Edward ain’t. Pretty and a prig my 
sister Sarah ” 

There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, 
and David remembered having heard his mother 
say that both Edward and William Mottisfont 
had been in love with the girl whom William 
married. ‘ ‘ And a plain prig my nephew Edward, 
continued the old gentleman. ‘ ‘ Damn it all, David, 
why can’t I leave my money to you instead?” 

David laughed. 

“Because I should n’t take it, sir,” he said. 

He was sitting, most unprofessionally, on the 
edge of his patient’s large four-post bed. Old 
Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked at him quizzically. 

“How much would you take — eh, David? 
Come now — say — how much?” 

David laughed again. His grey eyes twinkled. 
“Nary penny, sir,” he said, swinging his arm over 
the great carved post beside him. There were 
cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that had always 
amused its owner considerably. 

“Nonsense,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, and for 
the first time his thin voice was tinged with 
earnestness. “Nonsense, David. Why! I’ve left 
you five thousand pounds.” 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


3 


David started. His eyes changed. They were 
very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed 
that they appeared grey. When he was serious 
they were so dark as to look black. Apparently 
he was moved and concerned. His voice took a 
boyish tone. “Oh, I say, sir — but you mustn’t 
— I can’t take it, you know.” 

“And why not, pray?” This was Mr. Mottis- 
font at his most sarcastic. 

David got the better of his momentary 
embarrassment. 

“ I shan’t forget that you ’ve thought of it, sir, ” 
he said. “But I can’t benefit under a patient’s 
will. I have n’t got many principles, but that ’s 
one of them. My father drummed it into me 
from the time I was about seven.” 

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lifted the thin 
eyebrows that had contrived to remain coal-black, 
although his hair was white. They gave him a 
Mephistophelean appearance of which he was 
rather proud. 

“Very fine and highfalutin,” he observed. 
“ You ’re an exceedingly upright young man, David.” 

David roared. 

After a moment the old gentleman’s lips gave 
way at the comers, and he laughed too. 


4 


The Fire Within 


“Oh, Lord, David, who ’d ha’ thought it of 
you !” he said. “You won’t take a thousand?” 

David shook his head. 

“Not five hundred?” 

David grinned. 

“Not five pence,” he said. 

Old Mr. Mottisfont glared at him for a moment. 

* 1 Prig, ’ ’ he observed with great conciseness. Then 
he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and 
pulled out a long folded paper. 

“All the more for Edward,” he said maliciously. 
“All the more for Edward, and all the more reason 
for Edward to wish me dead. I wonder he don’t 
poison me. Perhaps he will. Oh, Lord, I ’d give 
something to see Edward tried for murder! 
Think of it, David — only think of it — Twelve 
British Citizens in one box — Edward in another — 
all the British Citizens looking at Edward, and 
Edward looking as if he was in church, and won- 
dering if the moth was getting into his collections, 
and if any one would care for ’em when he was 
dead and gone. Eh, David? Eh, David? And 
Mary — like Niobe, all tears ” 

David had been chuckling to himself, but at the 
mention of Edward’s wife his face changed a 
little. He continued to laugh, but his eyes hard- 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


5 


ened, and he interrupted his patient: “Come, 
sir, you must n't tire yourself.” 

“ Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Mr. Mottisfont, 
obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she’d look too — 
eh, David? Edward’s a lucky dog, ain’t he?” 

David’s eyes flashed once and then hardened 
still more. His chin was very square. 

“Come, sir,” he repeated, and looked steadily 
at the old man. 

“Beast — ain’t I?” said old Mr. Mottisfont 
with the utmost cheerfulness. He occupied him- 
self with arranging the bedclothes in an accurate 
line across his chest. As he did so, his hand 
touched the long folded paper, and he gave it an 
impatient push. 

“You’re a damn nuisance, David,” he said. 
“ I ’ve made my will once, and now I ’ve to make it 
all over again just to please you. All the whole 
blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Edward Morell 
Mottisfont,’ down to ‘I deliver this my act and 
deed. ’ Oh, Lord, what a bore.” 

“Mr. Fenwick,” suggested David, and old Mr. 
Edward Mottisfont flared into sudden wrath. 

“ Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he said violently. 
“I know enough law to make a will they can’t 
upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers. 


6 


The Fire Within 


Worse than the doctors. Besides young Fenwick 
talks — tells his wife things — and she tells her 
sister. And what Mary Bowden knows, the town 
knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I 
suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for 
young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make 
my will. So far, so good. I made it — or he did. 
And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie 
Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Mary in 
memory of my old friendship with their father. 
And as soon as Master Fenwick had gone I put 
his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I 
know he talked? This way. A week later I met 
Mary Bowden in the High Street, and I had the 
fright of my life. I declare I thought she ’d ha’ 
kissed me. It was ‘ I hope you are prudent to be 
out in this east wind, dear Mr. Mottisfont,’ and 
I must come and see them soon — and oh, Lord, 
what fools women are! Mary Bowden never 
could abide me till she thought I ’d left her two 
thousand pounds.” 

“Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the 
world,” suggested David. 

“Much obliged, I’m sure. I did go to one 
once to make a will — they say it ’s sweet to play 
the fool sometimes — eh, David? Fool I was sure 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


7 


enough. I found a little mottled man, that sat 
blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I 
could have murdered him with his own office pen- 
knife. He called me Moral too, in stead of Morell. 
i Edward Moral Mottisfont, ’ and I took occasion 
to inform him that I was n’t moral, never had been 
moral, and never intended to. be moral. I said 
he must be thinking of my nephew Edward, who 
was damn moral. Oh, Lord, here is Edward. 
I could ha’ done without him.” 

The door opened as he was speaking, and young 
Edward Mottisfont came in. He was a slight, 
fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, 
and as much chin as a great many other people. 
He wore pince-nez because he was short-sighted, 
and high collars because he had a long neck. 
Both the pince-nez and the collar had an intensely 
irritating effect upon old Mr. Edward Mottisfont. 

“If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some 
bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would 
have been as good as mine, and he might just as 
well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting 
box as where he does keep it. Not that I should 
have said that Edward did keep his head.” 

“I think you flurry him, sir,” said David, 
“and ” 


8 


The Fire Within 


“I know I do,” grinned Mr. Mottisfont. 

Young Edward Mottisfont came into the room 
and shut the door. 

Old Mr. Mottisfont watched him with black, 
malicious eyes. 

For as many years as Edward could remember 
anything, he could remember just that look upon 
his uncle’s face. It made him uneasy now, as it 
had made him uneasy when he was only five years 
old. 

Once when he was fifteen he said to David 
Blake: “You cheek him, David, and he likes you 
for it. How on earth do you manage it? Does n’t 
he make you feel beastly?” 

And David stared and said: “Beastly? Rats! 
Why should I feel beastly? He ’s jolly amusing. 
He makes me laugh.” 

At thirty, Edward no longer employed quite 
the same ingenuous slang, but there was no doubt 
that he still experienced the same sensations, 
which fifteen years earlier he had characterised 
as beastly. 

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lay in bed with 
his hands folded on his chest. He watched his 
nephew with considerable amusement, and waited 
for him to speak. 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


9 


Edward took a chair beside the bed. Then he 
said that it was a fine day, and old Mr. Mottisfont 
nodded twice with much solemnity. 

“ Yes, Edward,” he said. 

There was a pause. 

“ I hope you are feeling pretty well,” was the un- 
fortunate Edward’s next attempt at conversation. 

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked across at 
David Blake. “Am I feeling pretty well — eh, 
David?” 

David laughed. He had moved when Edward 
came into the room, and was standing by the 
window looking out. A little square pane was 
open. Through it came the drowsy murmur of 
a drowsy, old-fashioned town. Mr. Mottisfont’s 
house stood a few yards back from the road, just 
at the head of the High Street. Market Harford 
was a very old town, and the house was a very old 
house. There was a staircase which was admired 
by American visitors, and a front door for which 
they occasionally made bids. From where Mr. 
Mottisfont lay in bed he could see a narrow lane 
hedged in by high old houses with red tiles. 
Beyond, the ground fell sharply away, and there 
was a prospect of many red roofs. Farther still, 
beyond the river, he could see the great black 


10 


The Fire Within 


chimneys of his foundry, and the smoke that came 
from them. It was the sight that he loved best 
in the world. David looked down into the High 
Street and watched one lamp after another spring 
into brightness. He could see a long ribbon of 
light go down to the river and then rise again. 
He turned back into the room when he was ap- 
pealed to, and said : 

“Why, you know best how you feel, sir.” 

“Oh, no,” said old Mr. Mottisfont in a smooth, 
resigned voice. “Oh, no, David. In a private 
and unofficial sort of way, yes ; but in a public 
and official sense, oh, dear, no. Edward wants to 
know when to order his mourning, and how to 
arrange his holiday so as not to clash with my 
funeral, so it is for my medical adviser to reply, 
ain’t it, Edward?” 

The colour ran to the roots of Edward Mottis- 
font’s fair hair. He cast an appealing glance in 
David’s direction, and did not speak. 

“ I don’t think any of us will order our mourning 
till you ’re dead, sir,” said David with a chuckle. 
He commiserated Edward, but, after all, Edward 
was a lucky dog — and to see one’s successful rival 
at a disadvantage is not an altogether unpleasant 
experience. “You ’ll outlive some of us young 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew n 

ones yet,” he added, but old Mr. Mottisfont was 
frowning. 

“Seen any more of young Stevenson, Edward?” 
he said, with an abrupt change of manner. 

Edward shook his head rather ruefully. 

“No, sir, I haven’t.” 

“No, and you ain’t likely to,” said old Mr. 
Mottisfont. “There, you ’d best be gone. I ’ve 
talked enough.” 

“Then good-night, sir,” said Edward Mottis- 
font, getting up with some show of cheerfulness. 

The tone of Mr. Mottisfont’s good-night was not 
nearly such a pleasant one, and as soon as the 
door had closed upon Edward he flung round 
towards David Blake with an angry “What ’s 
the good of him? What ’s the good of the fellow? 
He ’s not a business man. He ’s not a man at all ; 
he ’s an entomologiac — a lepidoptofool — a damn 
lepidoptofool.” 

These remarkable epithets followed one another 
with an extraordinary rapidity. 

When the old gentleman paused for breath 
David inquired, “What ’s the trouble, sir?” 

“Oh, he’s muddled the new contract with 
Stevenson. Thinking of butterflies, I expect. 
Pretty things, butterflies — but there — I don’t see 


12 


The Fire Within 


that I need distress myself. It ain’t me it ’s 
going to touch. It ’s Edward’s own look-out. 
My income ain’t going to concern me for very 
much longer.” 

He was silent for a moment. Then he made a 
restless movement with his hand. 

“It won’t, will it — eh, David? You didn’t 
mean what you said just now? It was just a 
flam? I ain’t going to live, am I?” 

David hesitated and the old man broke in with 
an extraordinary energy. 

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, David, I’m not a 
girl — out with it! How long d’ ye give me?” 

David sat down on the bed again. His move- 
ments had a surprising gentleness for so large a 
man. His odd, humorous face was quite serious. 

“Really, sir, I don’t know,” he said, “I really 
don’t. There ’s no more to be done if you won’t 
let me operate. No, we won’t go over all that 
again. I know you ’ve made up your mind. And 
no one can possibly say how long it may be. You 
might have died this week, or you may die in a 
month, or it may go on for a year — or two — or 
three. You ’ve the sort of constitution they 
don’t make nowadays.” 

“ Three years,” said old Mr. Edward Mottis- 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


13 


font — “ three years, David — and this damn pain 
all along — all the time — gettin’ worse ” 

“Oh, I think we can relieve the pain, sir/’ said 
David cheerfully. 

“Much obliged, David. Some beastly drug 
that 'll turn me into an idiot. No, thank ye, I ’ll 
keep my wits if it ’s all the same to you. Well, 
well, it ’s all in the day’s work, and I ’m not com- 
plaining, but Edward ’ll get mortal tired of waiting 
for my shoes if I last three years. I doubt his 
patience holding out. He ’ll be bound to hasten 
matters on. Think of the bad example I shall 
be for the baby — when it comes. Lord, David, 
what d’ ye want to look like that for? I suppose 
they ’ll have babies like other folk, and I ’ll be a 
bad example for ’em. Edward ’ll think of that. 
When he ’s thought of it enough, and I ’ve got 
on his nerves a bit more than usual, he ’ll 
put strychnine or arsenic into my soup. Oh, 
Edward ’ll poison me yet. You ’ll see.” 

“Poor old Edward, it ’s not much in his line,” 
said David with half a laugh. 

“Eh? What about Pellico’s dog then?” 

“Pellico’s dog, sir?” 

“What an innocent young man you are, David 
— never heard of Pellico’s dog before, did you? 


14 


The Fire Within 


Pellico’s dog that got on Edward’s nerves same as 
I get on his nerves, and you never knew that 
Edward dosed the poor brute with some of his 
bug-curing stuff, eh? To be sure you didn’t 
think I knew, nor did Edward. I don’t tell 
everything I know, and how I know it is my affair 
and none of yours, Master David Blake, but you 
see Edward ’s not so unhandy with a little job in 
the poisoning line.” 

David’s face darkened. The incident of Pel- 
lico’s dog had occurred when he and Edward were 
schoolboys of fifteen. He remembered it very 
well, but he did not very much care being reminded 
of it. Every day of his life he passed the narrow 
turning, down which, in defiance of parental 
prohibitions, he and Edward used to race each 
other to school. Old Pellico’s dirty, evil-smelling 
shop still jutted out of the farther end, and the 
grimy door-step upon which his dog used to lie 
in wait for their ankles was still as grimy as ever. 
Sometimes it was a trouser-leg that suffered. 
Sometimes an ankle was nipped, and if Pellico’s 
dog occasionally got a kick in return, it was not 
more than his due. David remembered his own 
surprise when it first dawned upon him that 
Edward minded — yes, actually minded these en- 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


15 


counters. He recalled the occasion when Edward, 
his face of a suspicious pallor, had denied angrily 
that he was afraid of any beastly dog, and then 
his sudden wincing confession that he did mind — 
that he minded horribly — not because he was 
afraid of being bitten — Edward explained this 
point very carefully — but because the dog made 
such a beastly row, and because Edward dreamed 
of him at night, only in his dreams, Pellico’s dog 
was rather larger than Pellico himself, and the 
lane was a cul-de-sac with a wall at the end of it, 
against which he crouched in his dream whilst the 
dog came nearer and nearer. 

“What rot,” was David’s comment, “but if I 
felt like that, I jolly well know I ’d knock the 
brute on the head.” 

“Would you?” said Edward, and that was all 
that had passed. Only, when a week later Pellico’s 
dog was poisoned, David was filled with righteous 
indignation. He stormed at Edward. 

“You did it — you know you did it. You did it 
with some of that beastly bug-killing stuff that 
you keep knocking about.” 

Edward was pale, but there was an odd 
gleam of triumph in the eyes that met 
David’s. 


i6 


The Fire Within 


“Well, you said you ’d do for him — you said it 
yourself. So then I just did it.” 

David stared at him with all a schoolboy's 
crude condemnation of something that was “not 
the game." 

“I ’d have knocked him on the head under old 
Pellico’s nose — but poison — poison ’s beastly .” 

He did not reason about it. It was just instinct. 
You knocked on the head a brute that annoyed 
you, but you did n’t use poison. And Edward 
had used poison. That was the beginning of 
David’s great intimacy with Elizabeth Chantrey. 
He did not quarrel with Edward, but they drifted 
out of an inseparable friendship into a relation- 
ship of the cool, go-as-you-please order. The 
thing rankled a little after all these years. David 
sat there frowning and remembering. Old Mr. 
Mottisfont laughed. 

“Aha, you see I know most things,” he said, 
“Edward ’ll poison me yet. You see, he ’s in a 
fix. He hankers after this house same as I always 
hankered after it. It ’s about the only taste we 
have in common. He ’s got his own house on a 
seven years’ lease, and here ’s Nick Anderson 
going to be married, and willing to take it off his 
hands. And what ’s Edward to do? It ’s a 


Mr. Mottisfont’s Nephew 


17 


terrible anxiety for him not knowing if I ’m going 
to die or not. If he does n’t accept Nick’s offer 
and I die, he ’ll have two houses on his hands. If 
he accepts it and I don’t die, he ’ll not have a 
house at all. It ’s a sad dilemma for Edward. 
That ’s why he would enjoy seeing about my 
funeral so much. He ’d do it all very handsomely. 
Edward likes things handsome. And Mary, who 
does n’t care a jot for me, will wear a black dress 
that don’t suit her, and feel like a Christian 
martyr. And Elizabeth won’t wear black at all, 
though she cares a good many jots, and though 
she ’d look a deal better in it than Mary — eh, 
David?” 

But David Blake was exclaiming at the lateness 
of the hour, and saying good-night, all in a breath. 


CHAPTER II 


DAVID BLAKE 


Grey, grey mist 
Over the old grey town, 

A mist of years, a mist of tears, 

Where ghosts go up and down; 

And the ghosts they whisper thus, and thus, 
Of the days when the world went with us. 



MINUTE or two later Elizabeth Chantrey 


came into the room. She was a very tall 
woman, with a beautiful figure. All her move- 
ments were strong, sure, and graceful. She carried 
a lighted lamp in her left hand. Mr. Mottisfont 
abominated electric light and refused obstinately 
to have it in the house. When Elizabeth had 
closed the door and set down the lamp, she crossed 
over to the window and fastened a heavy oak 
shutter across it. Then she sat down by the bed. 

“Well,” she said in her pleasant voice. 

“H’m,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, “well or ill ’s 
all a matter of opinion, same as religion, or the 
cut of a dress.” He shut his mouth with a snap, 


David Blake 


19 


and lay staring at the ceiling. Presently his eyes 
wandered back to Elizabeth. She was sitting 
quite still, with her hands folded. Very few busy 
women ever sit still at all, but Elizabeth Chantrey, 
who was a very busy woman, was also a woman of 
a most reposeful presence. She could be unoc- 
cupied without appearing idle, just as she could 
be silent without appearing either stupid or 
constrained. Old Edward Mottisfont looked at 
her for about five minutes. Then he said suddenly : 

“What *11 you do when I ’m dead, Elizabeth?’’ 

Elizabeth made no protest, as her sister Mary 
would have done. She had not been Edward 
Mottisfont’s ward since she was fourteen for 
nothing. She understood him very well, and she 
was perhaps the one creature whom he really 
loved. She leaned her chin in her hand and 
said: 

“I don’t know, Mr. Mottisfont.” 

Mr. Mottisfont never took his eyes off her face. 

“Edward ’ll want to move in here as soon as 
possible. What ’ll you do?” 

“I don’t know,” repeated Elizabeth, frowning 
a little. 

“Well, if you don’t know, perhaps you’ll 
listen to reason, and do as I ask you.” 


20 


The Fire Within 


“If I can,” said Elizabeth Chantrey. 

He nodded. 

“Stay here a year,” he said, “a year is n’t much 
to ask — eh?” 

“Here?” 

“Yes — in this house. I ’ve spoken about it to 
Edward. Odd creature, Edward, but, I believe, 
truthful. Said he was quite agreeable. Even 
went so far as to say he was fond of you, and that 
Mary would be pleased. Said you ’d too much 
tact to obtrude yourself, and that of course you ’d 
keep your own rooms. No, I don’t suppose 
you ’ll find it particularly pleasant, but I believe 
you ’ll find it worth while. Give it a year.” 

Elizabeth started ever so slightly. One may 
endure for years, and make no sign, to wince at 
last in one unguarded moment. So he knew — had 
always known. Again Elizabeth made no protest. 

“A year,” she said in a low voice, “a year — 
I ’ve given fifteen years. Is n’t fifteen years 
enough?” 

Something fierce came into old Edward Mottis- 
font’s eyes. His whole face hardened. “He’s 
a damn fool,” he said. 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“Of course he must be,” and she laughed again. 


David Blake 


21 


The old man nodded. 

'‘Grit,” he said to himself, “grit. That ’s the 
way — laugh, Elizabeth, laugh — and let him go 
hang for a damn fool. He ain’t worth it — no man 
living ’s worth it. But give him a year all the 
same.” 

If old Mr. Mottisfont had not been irritated 
with David Blake for being as he put it, a damn 
fool, he would not have made the references he 
had done to his nephew Edward’s wife. They 
touched David upon the raw, and old Mr. Mottis- 
font was very well aware of it. As David went 
out of the room and closed the door, a strange 
mood came upon him. All the many memories 
of this house, familiar to him from early boyhood, 
all the many memories of this town of his birth 
and upbringing, rose about him. It was a strange 
mood, but yet not a sad one, though just beyond 
it lay the black shadow which is the curse of the 
Celt. David Blake came of an old Irish stock, 
although he had never seen Ireland. He had the 
vein of poetry — the vein of sadness, which are 
born at a birth with Irish humour and Irish wit. 

As he went down the staircase, the famous 
staircase with its carved newels, the light of a 
moving lamp came up from below, and at the turn 


22 


The Fire Within 


of the stair he stood aside to let Elizabeth Chantrey 
pass. She wore a grey dress, and the lamp-light 
shone upon her hair and made it look like very 
pale gold. It was thick hair — very fine and thick, 
and she wore it in a great plait like a crown. In 
the daytime it was not golden at all, but just the 
colour of the pale thick honey with which wax is 
mingled. Long ago a Chantrey had married a 
wife from Norway with Elizabeth’s hair and 
Elizabeth’s dark grey eyes. 

“Good-night, David,” said Elizabeth Chantrey. 
She would have passed on, but to her surprise 
David made no movement. He was looking at her. 

“This is where I first saw you, Elizabeth,” 
he said in a remembering voice. “You had on a 
grey dress, like that one, but Mary was in blue, 
because Mr. Mottisfont would n’t let her wear 
mourning. Do you remember how shocked poor 
Miss Agatha was? — ‘and their mother only dead 
a month!’ I can hear her now.” Mary — yes, he 
remembered little Mary Chantrey in her blue 
dress. He could see her now — nine years old — 
in a blue dress — with dark curling hair and round 
brown eyes, holding tightly to Elizabeth’s skirts, 
and much too shy to speak to the big strange boy 
who was Edward’s friend. 


David Blake 


23 


Elizabeth watched him. She knew very well 
that he was not thinking of her, although he had 
remembered the grey dress. And yet — for five 
years — it was she and not Mary to whom David 
came with every mood. During those five years, 
the years between fourteen and nineteen, it was 
always Elizabeth and David, David and Elizabeth. 
Then when David was twenty, and in his first 
year at hospital, Dr. Blake died suddenly, and for 
four years David came no more to Market Harford. 
Mrs. Blake went to live with a sister in the north, 
and David's vacations were spent with his mother. 
For a time he wrote often — then less often — 
finally only at Christmas. And the years passed. 
Elizabeth’s girlhood passed. Mary grew up. 
And when David Blake had been nearly three 
years qualified, and young Dr. Ellerton was 
drowned out boating, David bought from Mrs. 
Ellerton a share in the practice that had been his 
father’s, and brought his mother back to Market 
Harford. Mrs. Blake lived only for a year, but 
before she died she had seen David fall headlong 
in love, not with her dear Elizabeth, but with 
Mary — pretty little Mary — who was turning the 
heads of all the young men, sending Jimmy Larkin 
with a temporarily broken heart to India, Jack 


24 


The Fire Within 


Webster with a much more seriously injured one 
to the West Coast of Africa, and enjoying herself 
mightily the while. Elizabeth had memories as 
well as David. They came at least as near sad- 
ness as his. She thought she had remembered 
quite enough for one evening, and she set her foot 
on the stair above the landing. 

‘ ‘ Poor Miss Agatha ! ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ What a worry 
we were to her, and how she disliked our coming 
here. I can remember her grumbling to Mr. 
Mottisfont, and saying, ‘Children make such a 
work in the house/ and Mr. Mottisfont ” 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“Mr. Mottisfont said, ‘Don’t be such a damn 
old maid, Agatha. For the Lord’s sake, what ’s 
the good of a woman that can’t mind children? ’ ” 

David laughed too. He remembered Miss 
Agatha’s fussy indignation. 

“Good-night, David,” said Elizabeth, and she 
passed on up the wide, shallow stair. 

The light went with her. From below there 
came only a glimmer, for the lamp in the hall was 
still turned low. David went slowly on. As he 
was about to open the front door, Edward Mottis- 
font came out of the dining-room on the left. 

“One minute, David,” he said, and took him 


David Blake 


25 


by the arm. “Look here — I think I ought to 
know. Is my uncle likely to live on indefinitely? 
Did you mean what you said upstairs?’* 

It was the second time that David Blake had 
been asked if he meant those words. He answered 
a trifle irritably. 

4 4 Why should I say what I don’t mean ? He may 
live three years or he may die to-morrow. Why 
on earth should I say it if I did n’t think it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Edward. “You 
might have been saying it just to cheer the old 
man up.” 

There was a certain serious simplicity about 
Edward Mottisfont. It was this quality in him 
which his uncle stigmatised as priggishness. Your 
true prig is always self-conscious, but Edward was 
not at all self-conscious. From his own point of 
view he saw things quite clearly. It was other 
people’s points of view which had a confusing 
effect upon him. David laughed. 

“It didn’t exactly cheer him up,” he said. 
“He is n’t as set on living as all that comes to.” 

Edward appeared to be rather struck by this 
statement. 

“Is n’t he?” he said. 

He opened the door as he spoke, but suddenly 


26 


The Fire Within 


closed it again. His tone altered. It became 
eager and boyish. 

“David, I say — you know Jimmy Larkin was 
transferred to Assam some months ago? Well, I 
wrote and asked him to remember me if he came 
across anything like specimens. Of course his 
forest work gives him simply priceless opportu- 
nities. He wrote back and said he would see 
what he could do, and last mail he sent me ” 

“What — a package of live scorpions?” 

“No — not specimens — oh, if he could only have 
sent the specimen — but it was the next best thing 
— a drawing — you remember how awfully well 
Jimmy drew — a coloured drawing of a perfectly 
new slug.” 

Edward’s tone became absolutely ecstatic. He 
began to rumple up his fair hair, as he always did 
when he was excited. “I can’t find it in any of 
the books,” he said, “and they ’d never even 
heard of it at the Natural History Museum. Five 
yellow bands on a black ground — what do you 
think of that?” 

“I should say it was Jimmy, larking,” mur- 
mured David, getting the door open and departing 
hastily, but Edward was a great deal too busy 
wondering whether the slug ought in justice to be 


David Blake 


27 


called after Jimmy, or whether he might name it 
after himself, to notice this ribaldry. 

David Blake came out into a clear September 
night. The sky was cloudless and the air was 
still. Presently there would be a moon. David 
walked down the brightly-lighted High Street, with 
its familiar shops. Here and there were a few 
new names, but for the most part he had known 
them all from childhood. Half-way down the hill 
he passed the tall grey house which had once had 
his father's plate upon the door — the house where 
David was born. Old Mr. Bull lived there now, 
his father’s partner once, retired these eighteen 
months in favour of his nephew, Tom Skeffington. 
All Market Harford wondered what Dr. Bull 
could possibly want with a house so much too 
large for him. He used only half the rooms, and 
the house had a sadly neglected air, but there were 
days, and this was one of them, when David, 
passing, could have sworn that the house had not 
changed hands at all and that the blind of his 
mother’s room was lifted a little as he went by. 
She used to wave to him from that window as he 
came from school. She wore the diamond ring 
which David kept locked up in his despatch-box. 
Sometimes it caught the light and flashed. David 


28 


The Fire Within 


could have sworn that he saw it flash to-night. 
But the house was all dark and silent. The old 
days were gone. David walked on. 

At the bottom of the High Street, just before 
you come to the bridge, he turned up to the right, 
where a paved path with four stone posts across 
the entrance came into the High Street at right 
angles. The path ran along above the river, with 
a low stone wall to the left, and a row of grey stone 
houses to the right. Between the wall and the 
river there were trees, which made a pleasant 
shade in the summer. Now they were losing 
their leaves. David opened the door of the 
seventh house with his latch-key, and went in. 
That night he dreamed his dream. It was a long 
time now since he had dreamed it, but it was an 
old dream — one that recurred from time to time 
— one that had come to him at intervals for as 
long as he could remember. And it was always 
the same — through all the years it never varied 
— it was always just the same. 

He dreamed that he was standing upon the 
seashore. It was a wide, low shore, with a long, 
long stretch of sand that shone like silver under a 
silver moon. It shone because it was wet, still 
quite wet from the touch of the tide. The tide 


David Blake 


29 


was very low. David stood on the shore, and saw 
the moon go down into the sea. As it went down 
it changed slowly. It became golden, and the 
sand turned golden too. A wind began to blow 
in from the sea. A wind from the west — a wind 
that was strong, and yet very gentle. At the 
edge of the sea there stood a woman, with long 
floating hair and a long floating dress. She stood 
between David and the golden moon, and the 
wind blew out her dress and her long floating hair. 
But David never saw her face. Always he longed 
to see her face, but he never saw it. He stood 
upon the shore and could not move to go to her. 
When he was a boy he used to walk in his sleep 
in the nights when he had this dream. Once he 
was awakened by the touch of cold stones under 
his bare feet. And there he stood, just as he had 
come from bed, on the wet door-step, with the 
front door open behind him. After that he locked 
his door. Now he walked in his sleep no longer, 
and it was more than a year since he had dreamed 
the dream at all, but to-night it came to him again. 


CHAPTER III 


DEAD MEN’S SHOES 

There ’s many a weary game to be played 
With never a penny to choose, 

But the weariest game in all the world 
Is waiting for dead men’s shoes. 

I T was about a week later that Edward Mottis- 
* font rang David Blake up on the telephone 
and begged him in agitated accents, to come to 
Mr. Mottisfont without delay. 

“It's another attack — a very bad one,” said 
Edward in the hall. His voice shook a little, and 
he seemed very nervous. David thought it was 
certainly a bad attack. He also thought it a 
strange one. The old man was in great pain, and 
very ill. Elizabeth Chantrey was in the room, 
but after a glance at his patient, David sent her 
away. As she went she made a movement to 
take up an empty cup which stood on the small 
table beside the bed, and old Mr. Edward Mottis- 
font fairly snapped at her. 

30 


Dead Men’s Shoes 


3i 

“Leave it, will you — I’ve stopped Edward 
taking it twice. Leave it, I say!” 

Elizabeth went out without a word, and Mr. 
Mottisfont caught David’s wrist in a shaky grip. 

“ D’ you know why I would n’t let her take that 
cup ? D ’ you know why ? ’ ’ 

“No, sir ” 

Old Mr. Mottisfont’s voice dropped to a thread. 
He was panting a little. 

“I was all right till I drank that damned tea, 
David,” he said, “and Edward brought it to me 
—Edward ” 

“Come, sir — come — ” said David gently. He 
was really fond of this queer old man, and he was 
distressed for him. 

“David, you won’t let him give me things — 
you ’ll look to it. Look in the cup. I would n’t 
let ’em take the cup — there ’s dregs. Look at 
’em, David.” 

David took up the cup and walked to the win- 
dow. About a tablespoonful of cold tea remained. 
David tilted the cup, then became suddenly 
attentive. That small remainder of cold tea with 

the little skim of cream upon it had suddenly 
\ 

become of absorbing interest. David tilted the 
cup still more. The tea made a little pool on one 


32 


The Fire Within 


side of it, and all across the bottom of the cup a 
thick white sediment drained slowly down into 
the pool. It was such a sediment as is left by very 
chalky water. But all the water of Market Har- 
ford is as soft as rain-water. It is not only chalk 
that makes a sediment like that. Arsenic makes 
one, too. David put down the cup quickly. 
He opened the door and went out into the 
passage. From the far end Elizabeth Chantrey 
came to meet him, and he gave her a hastily 
scribbled note for the chemist, and asked her for 
one or two things that were in the house. When 
he came back into Mr. Mottisfont’s room he went 
straight to the wash-stand, took up a small glass 
bottle labelled ipecacuanha wine and spent two or 
three minutes in washing it thoroughly. Then he 
poured into it very carefully the contents of the 
cup. He did all this in total silence, and in a very 
quiet and business-like manner. 

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lay on his right 
side and watched hin. His face was twisted with 
pain, and there was a dampness upon his brow, 
but his eyes followed every motion that David 
made and noted every look upon his face. They 
were intent — alive — observant. Whilst David 
stood by the wash-stand, with his back towards 


Dead Men’s Shoes 


33 


the bed, old Mr. Edward Mottisfont’s lips twisted 
themselves into an odd smile. A gleam of sar- 
donic humour danced for a moment in the watch- 
ing eyes. When David put down the bottle and 
came over to the bed, the gleam was gone, and 
there was only pain — great pain — in the old, 
restless face. There was a knock at the door, and 
Elizabeth Chantrey came in. 

Three hours later David Blake came out of the 
room that faced old Mr. Mottisfont’s at the farther 
end of the corridor. It was a long, low room, fitted 
up as a laboratory — very well and fully fitted up — 
for the old man had for years found his greatest 
pleasure and relaxation in experimenting with 
chemicals. Some of his experiments he confided 
to David, but the majority he kept carefully to 
himself. They were of a somewhat curious nature. 
David Blake came out of the laboratory with a 
very stem look upon his face. As he went down 
the stair he met with Edward Mottisfont coming 
up. The sternness intensified. Edward looked 
an unspoken question, and then without a word 
turned and went down before David into the hall. 
Then he waited. 

“ Gone? ” he said in a sort of whisper, and David 
bent his head. 


34 


The Fire Within 


He was remembering that it was only a week 
since he had told Edward in this very spot that his 
uncle might live for three years. Well, he was 
dead now. The old man was dead now — out of 
the way — some one had seen to that. Who? 
David could still hear Edward Mottisfont’s voice 
asking, “How long is he likely to live?” and his 
own answer, “Perhaps three years.” 

“Come in here,” said Edward Mottisfont. He 
opened the dining-room door as he spoke, and 
David followed him into a dark, old-fashioned 
room, separated from the one behind it by folding- 
doors. One of the doors stood open about an 
inch, but there was only one lamp in the room, and 
neither of the two men paid any attention to such 
a trifling circumstance. 

Edward sat down by the table, which was laid 
for dinner. Even above the white tablecloth his 
face was noticeably white. All his life this old 
man had been his bugbear. He had hated him, 
not with the hot hatred which springs from one 
great sudden wrong, but with the cold slow ab- 
horrence bred of a thousand trifling oppressions. 
He had looked forward to his death. For years he 
had thought to himself, “Well, he can't live for 
ever.” But now that the old man was dead, and 


Dead Men’s Shoes 


35 

the yoke lifted from his neck, he felt no relief — no 
sense of freedom. He felt oddly shocked. 

David Blake did not sit down. He stood at the 
opposite side of the table and looked at Edward. 
From where he stood he could see first the 
white tablecloth, then Edward’s face, and on 
the wall behind Edward, a full-length portrait 
of old Edward Mottisfont at the age of thirty. 
It was the work of a young man whom Market 
Harford had looked upon as a very disreputable 
young man. He had since become so famous that 
they had affixed a tablet to the front of the house 
in which he had once lived. The portrait was one 
of the best he had ever painted, and the eyes, 
Edward Mottisfont’s black, malicious eyes, looked 
down from the wall at his nephew, and at David 
Blake. Neither of the men had spoken since they 
entered the room, but they were both so busy with 
their thoughts that neither noticed how silent the 
other was. 

At last David spoke. He said in a hard level 
voice : 

'‘Edward, I can’t sign the certificate. There 
will have to be an inquest.” 

Edward Mottisfont looked up with a great start. 

“An inquest?” he said, “an inquest?” 


36 


The Fire Within 


One of David's hands rested on the table. “I 
can’t sign the certificate,” he repeated. 

Edward stared at him. 

‘ ‘ Why not ? ” he said. ‘ ‘ I don’t understand 

“ Don’t you?” said David Blake. 

Edward rumpled up his hair in a distracted 
fashion. 

“I don’t understand,” he repeated. “An in- 
quest? Why, you ’ve been attending him all these 
months, and you said he might die at any time. 
You said it only the other day. I don’t under- 
stand ” 

“Nor do I,” said David curtly. 

Edward stared again. 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Mr. Mottisfont might have lived for some 
time,” said David Blake, speaking slowly. “ I was 
attending him for a chronic illness, which would 
have killed him sooner or later. But it did n’t 
kill him. It did n’t have a chance. He died of 
poisoning — arsenic poisoning.” 

One of Edward’s hands was lying on the table. 
His whole arm twitched, and the hand fell over, 
palm upwards. The fingers opened and closed 
slowly. David found himself staring at that 
slowly moving hand. 


Dead Men’s Shoes 


37 

“Impossible,” said Edward, and his breath 
caught in his throat as he said it. 

“I ’m afraid not.” 

Edward leaned forward a little. 

“But, David,” he said, “it’s not possible. 
Who — who do you think — who would do such a 
thing? Or — suicide — do you think he committed 
suicide?” 

David drew himself suddenly away from the 
table. All at once the feeling had come to him 
that he could no longer touch what Edward 
touched, 

“No, I don't think it was suicide,” he said. 
“ But of course it ’s not my business to think at 
all. I shall give my evidence, and there, as far 
as I am concerned, the matter ends.” 

Edward looked helplessly at David. 

“Evidence?” he repeated. 

“At the inquest,” said David Blake. 

“I don’t understand,” said Edward again. 
He put his head in his hands, and seemed to be 
thinking. 

“Are you sure?” he said at last. “I don’t see 
how — it was an attack — just like his other attacks 
— and then he died — you always said he might 
die in one of those attacks.” 


38 


The Fire Within 


There was a sort of trembling eagerness in 
Edward's tone. A feeling of nausea swept over 
David. The scene had become intolerable. 

“Mr. Mottisfont died because he drank a cup 
of tea which contained enough arsenic to kill a 
man in robust health," he said sharply. 

He looked once at Edward, saw him start, and 
added, “and I think that you brought him that 
tea." 

“Yes," said Edward. “He asked me for it, 
how could there be arsenic in it?" 

“There was," said David Blake. 

“Arsenic? But I brought him the tea " 

“Yes, you brought him the tea." 

Edward lifted his head. His eyes behind his 
glasses had a misty and bewildered look. His 
voice shook a little. 

“But — if there's an inquest — they might say 
— they might think " 

He pushed his chair back a little way, and half 
rose from it, resting his hands on the table, and 
peering across it. 

“David, why do you look at me like that?" 

David Blake turned away. 

“It’s none of my business," he said, “I've 
got to give my evidence, and for God's sake, 


Dead Men’s Shoes 


39 


Edward, pull yourself together before the inquest, 
and get decent legal advice, for you ’ll need it.” 

Edward was shockingly pale. 

“You mean — what do you mean? That people 
will think — it ’s impossible.” 

David went towards the door. His face was 
like a flint. 

“I mean this,” he said. “Mr. Mottisfont died 
of arsenic poisoning. The arsenic was in a cup 
of tea which he drank. You brought him the 
tea. You are undoubtedly in a very serious posi- 
tion. There will have to be an inquest.” 

Edward had risen completely. He made a 
step towards David. 

“But if you were to sign the certificate — there 
would n’t need to be an inquest — David ” 

“But I ’m damned if I ’ll sign the certificate,” 
said David Blake. 

He went out and shut the door sharply behind 
him. 


CHAPTER IV 


A man’s honour 

“Will you give me your heart?” she said. 
“Oh, I gave it you long ago,” said he. 
“Why, then, I threw it away,” said she. 
“And what will you give me instead? 

Will you give me your honour? ” she said. 


“CLIZABETH!” 

' There was a pause. 

“Elizabeth — open your door!” 

Elizabeth Chantrey came back from a long way 
off. Mary was calling her. Mary was knocking 
at her door. She got up rather wearily, turned 
the key, and with a little gasp, Mary was in the 
room, shutting the door, and standing with her 
back against it. The lamp burned low, but 
Elizabeth’s eyes were accustomed to the gloom. 
Mary Mottisfont’s bright, clear colour was one of 
her great attractions. It was all gone and her 
dark eyes looked darker and larger than they 
should have done. 

“Why, Molly, I thought you had gone home. 

40 


A Man’s Honour 


4i 

Edward told me he was sending you home an 
hour ago.” 

“He told me to go,” said Mary in a sort of 
stumbling whisper. “He told me to go — but I 
wanted to wait and go with him. I knew he ’d 
be upset — I knew he 'd feel it — when it was all 
over. I wanted to be with him — oh, Liz ” 

“Mary, what is it?” 

Mary put up a shaking hand. 

“I 'll tell you — don't stop me — there 's no time 
— I '11 tell you — oh, I ’m telling you as fast as I 
can.” 

She spoke in a series of gasps. 

“I went into your little room behind the dining- 
room. I knew no one would come. I knew I 
should hear any one coming or going. I opened 
the door into the dining-room — just a little ” 

“Mary, what is it?” said Elizabeth. She put 
her arm round her sister, but Mary pushed her 
away. 

“Don't — there's no time. Let me go on. 
David came down. He came into the dining- 
room. He talked to Edward. He said, ‘I can’t 
sign the certificate,' and Edward said, ‘Why not?' 
and David said, ‘Because' — Liz — I can’t — oh, 
Liz, I can’t— I can’t.” 


42 


The Fire Within 


Mary caught suddenly at Elizabeth’s arm and 
began to sob. She had no tears — only hard sobs. 
Her pretty oval face was all white and drawn. 
There were dark marks like bruises under her 
hazel eyes. The little dark rings of hair about 
her forehead were damp. 

“Dearest — darling — my Molly dear,” said 
Elizabeth. She held Mary to her, with strong 
supporting arms, but the shuddering sobs went on. 

“Liz — it was poison. He says it was poison. 
He says there was poison in the tea — arsenic 
poison — and Edward took him the tea. Liz — 
Liz, why do such awful things happen? Why does 
God let them happen?” 

Elizabeth was much taller than her sister — 
taller and stronger. She released herself from 
the clutching fingers, and let both her hands fall 
suddenly and heavily upon Mary’s shoulders. 

“Molly, what are you talking about?” she 
cried. 

Mary was startled into a momentary self-control. 

“Mr. Mottisfont,” she said. “David said it 
was poison — poison, Liz.” 

Her voice fell to a low horrified whisper at the 
word, and then rose on the old gasp of, “Edward 
took him the tea.” A numbness came upon 


A Man’s Honour 


43 


Elizabeth. Feeling was paralysed. She was 
conscious neither of horror, anxiety, nor sorrow. 
Only her brain remained clear. All her conscious- 
ness seemed to have gone to it, and it worked with 
an inconceivable clearness and rapidity. 

“Hush, Mary,” she said. “What are you 
saying ? Edward * ’ 

Mary pushed her away. 

“Of course not,” she said. “Liz, if you dared 
— but you don’t — no one could really — Edward of 
all people. But there ’s all the talk, the scandal — 
we can’t have it. It must be stopped. And we ’re 
losing time, we ’re losing time dreadfully. I must 
go to David, and stop him before he writes to 
any one, or sees any one. He must sign the 
certificate.” 

Elizabeth stood quite still for a moment. Then 
she went to the wash-stand, poured out a glass of 
water, and came back to Mary. 

“Drink this, Molly,” she said. “Yes, drink 
it all, and pull yourself together. Now listen to 
me. You can’t possibly go to David.” 

“I must go, I must,” said Mary. Her tone 
hardened. “Will you come with me, Liz, or 
must I go alone?” 

Elizabeth took the empty glass and set it down. 


44 


The Fire Within 


“Molly, my dear, you must listen. No — 
I ’m thinking of what ’s best for every one. You 
don’t want any talk. If you go to David’s house 
at this hour — well, you can see for yourself. No 
— listen, my dear. If I ring David up, and ask 
him to come here at once — at once — to see me, 
don’t you see how much better that will be?” 

Mary’s colour came and went. She stood 
irresolute. 

“Very well,” she said at last. “If he ’ll come. 
If he won’t, then I ’ll go to him, and I don’t care 
what you say, Elizabeth — and you must be quick 
— quick.” 

They went downstairs in silence. Mr. Mottis- 
font’s study was in darkness, and Elizabeth 
brought in the lamp from the hall, holding it very 
steadily. Then she sat down at the great littered 
desk and rang up the exchange. She gave the 
number and they waited. After what seemed like 
a very long time, Elizabeth heard David’s voice. 

“Hullo!” 

“It is I — Elizabeth,” said Elizabeth Chantrey. 

“What is it?” 

“Can you come here at once? I want to see 
you at once. Yes, it is very important — import- 
ant and urgent.” 


A Man’s Honour 


45 


Mary was in an agony of impatience. “What 
does he say? Will he come? Will he come at 
once?” 

But Elizabeth answered David and not her 
sister. 

“No, presently won’t do. It must be at once. 
It ’s really urgent, David, or I would n’t ask it. 
Yes, thank you so much. In my room.” 

She put down the receiver, rang off, and turned 
to Mary. 

“He is coming. Had you not better send 
Edward a message, or he will be coming back 
here? Ring up, and say that you are staying 
with me for an hour, and that Markham will 
walk home with you.” 

In Elizabeth’s little brown room the silence 
weighed and the time lagged. Mary walked up 
and down, moving perpetually — restlessly — use- 
lessly. There was a small Dutch mirror above the 
writing-table. Its cut glass border caught the 
light, and reflected it in diamond points and rain- 
bow flashes. It was the brightest thing in the 
room. Mary stood for a moment and looked at 
her own face. She began to arrange her hair with 
nervous, trembling fingers. She rubbed her 
cheeks, and straightened the lace at her 


46 The Fire Within 

throat. Then she fell to pacing up and down 
again. 

“The room 's so hot,” she said suddenly. And 
she went quickly to the window and flung it open. 
The air came in, cold and mournfully damp. 
Mary drew half a dozen long breaths. Then she 
shivered, her teeth chattered. She shut the 
window with a jerk, and as she did so David Blake 
came into the room. It was Elizabeth he saw, 
and it was to Elizabeth that he spoke. 

“Is anything the matter? Anything fresh?” 
Elizabeth moved aside, and all at once he saw 
Mary Mottisfont. 

“Mary wants to speak to you,” said Elizabeth. 
She made a step towards the door, but Mary 
called her sharply. “No, Liz — stay!” 

And Elizabeth drew back into the shadowed 
corner by the window, whilst Mary came forward 
into the light. For a moment there was silence. 
Mary's hands were clasped before her, her chin 
was a little lifted, her eyes were desperately 
intent. 

“David,” she said in a low fluttering voice, 
“oh, David — I was in here — I heard — I could not 
help hearing.” 

“What did you hear?” asked David Blake. 


A Man’s Honour 


47 


The words came from him with a sort of startled 
hardness. 

“I heard everything you said to Edward — 
about Mr. Mottisfont. You said it was poison. 
I heard you say it.” 

“Yes,” said David Blake. 

“And Edward took him the tea,” said Mary 
quickly. “Don’t you see, David — don’t you see 
how dreadful it is for Edward? People who did n’t 
know him might say — they might think such 
dreadful things — and if there were an inquest — ” 
the words came in a sort of strangled whisper. 
“There can’t be an inquest — there can't. Oh, 
David, you ’ll sign the certificate, won’t you?” 

David’s face had been changing while she spoke. 
The first hard startled look went from it. It was 
succeeded by a flash of something like horror, and 
then by pain — pain and a great pity. 

“No, Mary, dear, I can’t,” he said very gently. 
He looked at her, and further words died upon his 
lips. Mary came nearer. There was a big chair 
in front of the fireplace, and she rested one hand 
on the back of it. It seemed as if she needed 
something firm to touch, her world was shifting 
so. David had remained standing by the door, 
but Mary was not a yard away from him now. 


48 


The Fire Within 


“You see, David,” she said, still in that low 
tremulous voice, “you see, David, you haven’t 
thought — you can’t have thought — what it will 
mean if you don’t. Edward might be suspected 
of a most dreadful thing. I ’m sure you have n’t 
thought of that. He might even” — Mary’s eyes 
widened — “he might even be arrested — and tried — 
and I could n’t bear it.” The hand that rested 
on the chair began to tremble very much. “I 
could n’t bear it,” said Mary piteously. 

“Mary, my dear,” said David, “this is a busi- 
ness matter, and you must n’t interfere — I can’t 
possibly sign the certificate. Poor old Mr. Mottis- 
font did not die a natural death, and the matter 
will have to be inquired into. No innocent person 
need have anything to be afraid of.” 

“Oh!” said Mary. Her breath came hard. 
“You haven’t told any one — not yet? You 
have n’t written? Oh, am I too late? Have you 
told people already?” 

“No,” said David, “not yet, but I must.” 

The tears came with a rush to Mary’s eyes, and 
began to roll down her cheeks. 

“No, no, David, no,” she said. Her left hand 
went out towards him gropingly. “ Oh, no, David, 
you must n’t. You have n’t thought — indeed you 


A Man’s Honour 


49 


have n’t. Innocent people can’t always prove 
that they are innocent. They can't. There ’s a 
book — a dreadful book. I ’ve just been reading 
it. There was a man who was quite, quite inno- 
cent — as innocent as Edward — and he couldn’t 
prove it. And they were going to hang him — 
David!” 

Mary’s voice broke off with a sort of jerk. Her 
face became suddenly ghastly. There was an 
extremity of terror in every sharpened feature. 
Elizabeth stood quite straight and still by the 
window. She was all in shadow, her brown dress 
lost against the soft brown gloom of the half- 
drawn velvet curtain. She felt like a shadow 
herself as she looked and listened. The numb- 
ness was upon her still. She was conscious as 
it were of a black cloud that overshadowed them 
all — herself, Mary, Edward. But not David. 
David stood just beyond, and Mary was trying to 
hold him and to draw him into the blackness. 
Something in Elizabeth’s deadened consciousness 
kept saying over and over again: “Not David, 
not David.” Elizabeth saw the black cloud with 
a strange internal vision. With her bodily eyes 
she watched David’s face. She saw it harden 
when Mary looked at him, and quiver with pain 


4 


50 


The Fire Within 


when she looked away. She saw his hand go out 
and touch Mary’s hand, and she heard him say : 

“Mary, I can’t. Don’t ask me.” 

Mary put her other hand suddenly on David’s 
wrist. A bright colour flamed into her cheeks. 

“David, you used to be fond of me — once — not 
long ago. You said you would do anything for 
me. Anything in the world. You said you loved 
me. And you said that nowadays a man did not 
get the opportunity of showing a woman what he 
would do for her. You wanted to do something 
for me then, and I had nothing to ask you. Are n’t 
you fond of me any more, David? Won’t you do 
anything for me now? — now that I ask you?” 

David pulled his hand roughly from her grasp. 
He pushed past her, and crossed the room. 

“Mary, you don’t know what you are asking 
me,” he said in a tone of sharp exasperation. 
“You don’t know what you are talking about. 
You don’t seem to realise that you are asking me 
to become an accessory after the fact in a case of 
murder.” 

Mary shuddered. The word was like a blow. 
She spoke in a hurried whispering way. 

“But Edward — it’s for Edward. What will 
happen to Edward? And to me? Don’t you 


A Man’s Honour 


5i 


care? We *ve only been married six months. 
It ’s such a little time. Don’t you care at all? I 
never knew such dreadful things could happen — 
not to one’s self. You read things in papers, 
and you never think — you never, never think that 
a thing like that could happen to yourself. I 
suppose those people don’t all die, but I should 
die. Oh, David, are n’t you going to help us?” 

She spoke the last words as a child might have 
spoken them. Her eyes were fixed appealingly 
upon David’s face. Mary Mottisfont had very 
beautiful eyes. They were hazel in colour, and 
in shape and expression they resembled those of 
another Mary, who was also Queen of Hearts. 

Elizabeth Chantrey became suddenly aware 
that she was shaking all over, and that the room 
was full of a thick white mist. She groped in the 
mist and found a chair. She made a step forward, 
and sat down. Then the mist grew thipner by 
degrees, and through it she saw that Mary had 
come quite close to David again. She was looking 
up at him. Her hands were against his breast, 
and she was saying : 

“David — David — David, you said the world 
was not enough to give me once.” 

David’s face was rigid. 


52 


The Fire Within 


“You wouldn’t take what I had to give,” he 
said very low. He had forgotten Elizabeth 
Chantrey. He saw nothing but Mary’s eyes. 

“You didn’t want my love, Mary, and now 
you want my honour. And you say it is only a 
little thing.” 

Mary lifted her head and met his eyes. 

“Give it me,” she said. “If it is a great thing, 
well, I shall value it all the more. Oh, David, 
because I ask it. Because I shall love you all my 
life, and bless you all my life. And if I ’m asking 
you a great thing — oh, David, you said that 
nothing would be too great to give me. Oh, 
David, won’t you give me this now? Won’t you 
give me this one thing, because I ask it?” 

As Mary spoke the mist cleared from before 
Elizabeth’s eyes and the numbness that had been 
upon her changed slowly into feeling. She put 
both hands to her heart, and held them there. 
Her heart beat against her hands, and every beat 
hurt her. She felt again, and what she felt was 
the sharpest pain that she had ever known, and 
she had known much pain. 

She had suffered when David left Market 
Harford. She had suffered when he ceased to 
write. She had suffered when he returned only 


A Man’s Honour 


53 


to fall headlong in love with Mary. And what 
she had suffered then had been a personal pang, 
a thing to be struggled with, dominated, and over- 
come. Now she must look on whilst David 
suffered too. Must watch whilst his nerves 
tautened, his strength failed, his self-control gave 
way. And she could not shut her eyes or look 
away. She could not raise her thought above this 
level of pain. The black cloud overshadowed 
them and hid the light of heaven. 

“Because I ask you, David — David, because 
I ask you.” 

Mary's voice trembled and fell to a quivering 
whisper. 

Suddenly David pushed her away. He turned 
and made a stumbling step towards the fireplace. 
His hands gripped the narrow mantelshelf. His 
eyes stared at the wall. And from the wall 
Mary's eyes looked back at him from the minia- 
ture of Mary’s mother. There was a long minute’s 
silence. Then David swung round. His face was 
flushed, his eyes looked black. 

“If I do it can you hold your tongues?” he said 
in a rough, harsh voice. 

Mary drew a deep soft breath of relief. She 
had won. Her hands dropped to her side, her 


54 


The Fire Within 


whole figure relaxed, her face became soft and 
young again. 

“O David, God bless you!” she cried. 

David frowned. His brows made a dark line 
across his face. Every feature was heavy and 
forbidding. 

“Can you hold your tongues?” he repeated. 
“Do you understand — do you fully understand 
that if a word of this is ever to get out it ’s just 
sheer ruin to the lot of us? Do you grasp that?” 

Elizabeth Chan trey got up. She crossed the 
room, and stood at David’s side, nearly as tall as 
he. 

“Don’t do it, David,” she said, with a sudden 
passion in her voice. 

Mary turned on her in a flash. 

“Liz,” she cried; but David stood between. 

“It’s none of your business, Elizabeth. You 
keep out of it.” The tone was kinder than the 
words. 

Elizabeth was silent. She drew away, and did 
not speak again. 

“I ’ll do it on one condition,” said David Blake. 
“You ’d better go and tell Edward at once. I 
don’t want to see him. I don’t suppose he ’s 
been talking to any one — it ’s not exactly likely — 


A Man’s Honour 


55 


but if he has the matter ’s out of my hands. I ’ll 
not touch it. If he has n’t, and you ’ll all hold 
your tongues, I ’ll do it.” 

He turned to the door and Mary cried: “Won’t 
you write it now? Won’t you sign it before you 
go?” 

David laughed grimly. 

“Do you think I go about with my pockets 
full of death certificates?” he said. Then he was 
gone, and the door shut to behind him. 

Elizabeth moved, and spoke. 

“I will tell Markham that you are ready to go 
home,” she said. 


CHAPTER V 


TOWN TALK 


As long as idle dogs will bark, and idle asses bray, 

As long as hens will cackle over every egg they lay, 

So long will folks be chattering, 

And idle tongues be clattering, 

For the less there is to talk about, the more there is to say. 


HE obituary notices of old Mr. Mottisfont 



* which appeared in due course in the two 
local papers were of a glowingly appreciative 
nature, and at least as accurate as such notices 
usually are. David could not help thinking how 
much the old gentleman would have relished the 
fine phrases and the flowing periods. Sixty years 
of hard work were compressed into two and a half 
columns of palpitating journalese. David pre- 
ferred the old man’s own version, which had fewer 
adjectives and a great deal more backbone. 

“My father left me nothing but debts — and 
William. The ironworks were in a bad way, and 
we were on the edge of a bankruptcy. I was 


Town Talk 


57 


twenty-one, and William was fifteen, and every one 
shook their heads. I can see ’em now. Well, I 
gave some folk the rough side of my tongue, and 
some the smooth. I had to have money, and no 
one would lend. I got a little credit, but I could 
n’t get the cash. Then I hunted up my father’s 
cousin, Edward Moberly. Rolling he was, and 
as close as wax. Bored to death too, for all his 
money. I talked to him, and he took to me. I 
talked to him for three days, and he lent me what 
I wanted, on my note of hand, and I paid it all 
back in five years, and the interest up-to-date 
right along. It took some doing but I got it 
done. Then the thing got a go on it, and we 
climbed right up. And folks stopped shaking 
their heads. I began to make my mark. I began 
to be a ‘respected fellow-citizen.’ Oh, Lord, 
David, if you ’d known William you ’d respect 
me too! Talk about the debts — as a handicap, 
they were n’t worth mentioning in the same breath 
with William. I could talk people into believing 
I was solvent, but I could n’t talk ’em into 
believing that William had any business capacity. 
And I could n’t pay off William, same as I paid 
off the debts.” 

David’s recollections plunged him suddenly 


58 


The Fire Within 


into a gulf of black depression. Such a plucky 
old man, and now he was dead — out of the way — 
and he, David, had lent a hand to cover the matter 
over, and shield the murderer. David took the 
black fit to bed with him at night, and rose in 
the morning with the gloom upon him still. It 
became a shadow which went with him in all his 
ways, and clung about his every thought. And 
with the gloom there came upon him a horrible, 
haunting recurrence of his old passion for Mary. 
The wound made by her rejection of him had been 
slowly skinning over, but in the scene which they 
had shared, and the stress of the emotions raised 
by it, this wound had broken out afresh, and now 
it was no more a deep clean cut, but a festering 
thing that bid fair to poison all the springs of life. 
At Mary’s bidding he had violated a trust, and 
his own sense of honour. There were times when 
he hated Mary. There were times when he craved 
for her. And always his contempt for himself 
deepened, and with it the gloom — the black gloom. 

“The doctor gets through a sight of whisky 
these days,” remarked Mrs. Havergill, David’s 
housekeeper. “And a more abstemious gentle- 
man, I ’m sure I never did live with. Weeks a 
bottle of whisky ’ud last, unless he ’d friends in. 


Town Talk 


59 


And now — gone like a flash, as you might say. 
Only, just you mind there ’s not a word of this 
goes out of the ’ouse, Sarah, my girl. D’ ye hear ? ” 

Sarah, a whey-faced girl whose arms and legs 
were set on at uncertain angles, only nodded. 
She adored David with the unreasoning affection 
of a dog, and had he taken to washing in whisky 
instead of merely drinking it, she would have 
regarded his doing so as quite a right and proper 
thing. 

When the local papers had finished Mr. Mottis- 
font’s obituary notices and had lavished all their 
remaining stock of adjectives upon the funeral 
arrangements, they proceeded to interest them- 
selves in the terms of his will. For once, old Mr. 
Mottisfont had done very much what was expected 
of him. Local charities benefited and old servants 
were remembered. Elizabeth Chantrey was left 
twenty-five thousand pounds, and everything else 
went to Edward. “To David Blake I leave my 
sincere respect, he having declined to receive a 
legacy/’ 

David could almost see the old man grin as he 
wrote the words, could almost hear him chuckle, 
“Very well, my highfalutin young man — into the 
pillory with you.” 


6o 


The Fire Within 


The situation held a touch of sardonic humour 
beyond old Mr. Mottisfont’s contriving, and the 
iron of it rusted into David’s soul. Market 
Harford discussed the terms of the will with great 
interest. They began to speculate as to what 
Elizabeth Chantrey would do. When it trans- 
pired that she was going to remain on in the old 
house and be joined there by Edward and Mary, 
there was quite a little buzz of talk . 

“I assure you he made it a condition — a secret 
condition,” said old Mrs. Codrington in her deep 
booming voice. “I have it from Mary herself. 
He made it a condition.” 

It was quite impossible to disbelieve a state- 
ment made with so much authority. Mrs. Cod- 
rington’s voice always stood her in good stead. 
It had a solidity which served to prop up any 
shaky fact. Miss Dobell, to whom she was 
speaking, sniffed, and felt a little out of it. She 
had been Agatha Mottisfont’s great friend, and 
as such she felt that she herself should have been 
the fountainhead of information. As soon as 
Mrs. Codrington had departed Miss Hester 
Dobell put on her outdoor things and went to 
call upon Mary Mottisfont. 

As it was a damp afternoon, she pinned up her 


Town Talk 


61 


skirts all round, and she was still unpinning them 
upon Mary’s doorstep, when the door opened. 

“ Miss Chantrey is with her sister? Oh, indeed ! 
That is very nice, very nice indeed. And Mrs. 
Mottisfont is seeing visitors, you say? Yes? 
Then I will just walk in — just walk in.” 

Miss Dobell came into the drawing-room with 
a little fluttered run. Her faded blue eyes were 
moist, but not so moist as to prevent her perceiv- 
ing that Mary wore a black dress which did not 
become her, and that Elizabeth had on an old 
grey coat and skirt, with dark furs, and a close 
felt hat which almost hid her hair. She greeted 
Mary very affectionately and Elizabeth a shade 
less affectionately. 

“I hope you are well, Mary, my dear? Yes? 
That is good. These sad times are very trying. 
And you, Elizabeth? I am pleased to find that 
you are able to be out. I feared you were indis- 
posed. Every one was saying, ‘Miss Chantrey 
must be indisposed, as she was not at the funeral.’ 
And I feared it was the case.” 

“No, thank you, I am quite well,” said Elizabeth. 

Miss Dobell seated herself, smoothing down her 
skirt. It was of a very bright blue, and she wore 
with it a little fawn-coloured jacket adorned with 


62 


The Fire Within 


a black and white braid, which was arranged upon 
it in loops and spirals. She had on also a blue 
tie, fastened in a bow at her throat, and an ex- 
tremely oddly-shaped hat, from one side of which 
depended a somewhat battered bunch of purple 
grapes. Beneath this rather bacchanalian head- 
gear her old, mild, straw-coloured face had all the 
effect of an anachronism. 

“I am so glad to find you both. I am so glad 
to have the opportunity of explaining how it was 
that I did not attend the funeral. It was a great 
disappointment. Everything so impressive, by 
all accounts. Yes. But I could not have at- 
tended without proper mourning. No. Oh, no, it 
would have been impossible. Even though I was 
aware that poor dear Mr. Mottisfont entertained 
very singular ideas upon the subject of mourning, 
I know how much they grieved poor dear Agatha. 
They were very singular. I suppose, my dear 
Elizabeth, that it is in deference to poor Mr. 
Mottisfont’s wishes that you do not wear black. 
I said to every one at once — oh, at once — ‘ depend 
upon it poor Mr. Mottisfont must have expressed 
a wish. Otherwise Miss Chantrey would cer- 
tainly wear mourning — oh, certainly. After living 
so long in the house, and being like a daughter to 


Town Talk 


63 


him, it would be only proper, only right and 
proper. ’ That is what I said, and I am sure I was 
right. It was his wish, was it not?” 

“He did not like to see people in black,” said 
Elizabeth. 

“No,” said Miss Dobell in a flustered little 
voice. “Very strange, is it not? But then so 
many of poor Mr. Mottisfont’s ideas were very 
strange. I cannot help remembering how they 
used to grieve poor dear Agatha. And his views 
— so sad — so very sad. But there, we must not 
speak of them now that he is dead. No. Doubt- 
less he knows better now. Oh, yes, we must hope 
so. I do not know what made me speak of it. 
I should not have done so. No, not now that he 
is dead! It was not right, or charitable. But I 
really only intended to explain how it came about 
that I was not at the funeral. It was a great 
deprivation — a very great deprivation, but I was 
there in spirit — oh, yes, in spirit.” 

The purple grapes nodded a little in sympathy 
with Miss Dobell’s nervous agitation. She put 
up a little hand, clothed in a brown woollen glove, 
and steadied them. 

“I often think,” she said, “that I should do 
well to purchase one black garment for such occa- 


6 4 


The Fire Within 


sions as these. Now I should hardly have liked 
to come here to-day, dressed in colours, had I not 
been aware of poor dear Mr. Mottisfont’s views. 
It is awkward. Yes, oh, yes. But you see, my 
dear Mary, in my youth, being one of a very large 
family, we were so continually in mourning that I 
really hardly ever possessed any garment of a 
coloured nature. When I was only six years old 
I can remember that we were in mourning for my 
grandfather. In those days, my dears, little 
girls, wore, well, they wore — little — hem — white 
trousers, quite long, you know, reaching in fact to 
the ankle. Under a black frock it had quite a 
garish appearance. And my dear mother, who 
was very particular about all family observances, 
used to stitch black crape bands upon the trouser- 
legs. It was quite a work. Oh, yes, I assure you. 
Then after my grandfather, there was my great- 
uncle George, and on the other side of the family 
my great-aunt Eliza. And then there were my 
uncles, and two aunts, and quite a number of 
cousins. And, later on, my own dear brothers 
and sisters. So that, as you may say, we were 
never out of black at all, for our means were such 
that it was necessary to wear out one garment 
before another could be purchased. And I be- 


Town Talk 


65 


came a little weary of wearing black, my dears. 
So when my last dear sister died, I went into 
colours. Not at once, oh, no!” — Miss Dobell 
became very much shocked and agitated at the 
sound of her own words. “Oh, dear, no. Not, 
of course, until after a full and proper period of 
mourning, but when that was over I went into 
colours, and have never since possessed anything 
black. You see, as I have no more relations, it 
is unnecessary that I should be provided with 
mourning.” 

Elizabeth Chantrey left her sister's house in 
rather a saddened mood. She wondered if she 
too would ever be left derelict. Unmarried 
women were often very lonely. Life went past 
them down other channels. They missed their 
link with the generations to come, and as the new 
life sprang up it knew them not, and they had 
neither part nor lot in it. When she reached 
home she sat for a long while very still, forcing 
her consciousness into a realisation of Life as 
a thing unbroken, one, eternal. The peace of 
it came upon her, and the sadness passed, 
s 


CHAPTER VI 


THE LETTER 


Oh, you shall walk in the mummers’ train, 
And dance for a beggar’s boon, 

And wear as mad a motley 
As any under the moon, 

And you shall pay the piper — 

But I will call the tune. 



,LD Mr. Mottisfont had been dead for about 


v ^ / a fortnight when the letter arrived. David 
Blake found it upon his breakfast table when he 
came downstairs. It was a Friday morning, and 
there was an east wind blowing. David came into 
the dining-room wishing that there were no such 
thing as breakfast, and there, propped up in 
front of his plate, was the letter. He stared at it, 
and stared again. A series of sleepless or hag- 
ridden nights are not the best preparation for a 
letter written in a dead man's hand and sealed 
with a dead man's seal. If David’s hand was 
steady when he picked up the letter it was because 
his will kept it steady, and for no other reason. 


66 


The Letter 


67 


As he held it in his hand, Mrs. Havergill came 
bustling in with toast and coffee. David passed 
her, went into his consulting room and shut the 
door. 

“First he went red and then he went white,” 
she told Sarah, “and he pushed past me as if I 
were a stock, or a post, or something of that sort. 
I ’ope he ’as n’t caught one of them nasty fevers, 
down in some slum. ’T is n’t natural for a man to 
turn colour that way. There was only one young 
man ever I knew as did it, William Jones his name 
was, and he was the sexton’s son down at Dunning- 
ton. And he ’d do it. Red one minute and white 
the next, and then red again. And he went off 
in a galloping decline, and broke his poor mother’s 
heart. And there ’s their two graves side by side 
in Dunnington Churchyard. Mr. Jones, he dug 
the graves hisself, and never rightly held his head 
up after. ” 

David Blake sat down at his table and spread 
out old Mr. Mottisfont’s letter upon the desk in 
front of him. It was a long letter, written in a 
clear, pointed handwriting, which was character- 
istic and unmistakable. 

“My dear David,” — wrote old Mr. Mottis- 


68 


The Fire Within 


font,— “My dear David, I have just written a 
letter to Edward — a blameless and beautiful 
letter — in which I have announced my immedi- 
ate, or, as one might say, approximate intention of 
committing suicide by the simple expedient of 
first putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then 
drinking the tea. I shall send Edward for the 
tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his 
very nose. And Edward will be thinking of 
beetles, and will not see me do it. I am prepared 
to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me 
do it. Edward’s letter, of which I enclose a copy, 
is the sort of letter which one shows to coroners, and 
jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course things 
may not have gone as far as that, but, on the 
other hand, they may. There are evil-minded 
persons who may have suspected Edward of 
having hastened my departure to a better world. 
You may even have suspected him yourself, in 
which case, of course, my dear David, this letter 
will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable 
relief.” David clenched his hand and read on. 
“Edward’s letter is for the coroner. It should 
arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my 
valued correspondent, William Giles, of New York, 
does as I have asked him. This letter is for you. 


The Letter 


69 


Between ourselves, then, it was that possible 
three years of yours that decided me. I could n’t 
stand it. I don’t believe in another world, and 
I ’m damned if I ’ll put in three years’ hell in this 
one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and 
I ’m not going to hang on like that, not to please 
any one, nor I ’m not going to be cut up in sec- 
tions either. So now you know all about it. 
I ’ve just sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, 
it will hurt his feelings very much to be suspected 
of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort 
of last word — you ’re no end of a damn fool — why 
don’t you marry the right woman instead of 
wasting your time hankering after the wrong one? 
That ’s all. Here ’s luck. 

“ Yours. 

“E. M. M.” 

David read the letter straight through without 
any change of expression. When he came to the 
end he folded the sheets neatly, put them back in 
the envelope, and locked the envelope away in a 
drawer. Then his face changed suddenly. First, 
a great rush of colour came into it, and then every 
feature altered under an access of blind and un- 
governable anger. He pushed back his chair and 


70 


The Fire Within 


sprang up, but the impetus which had carried him 
to his feet appeared to receive some extraordinary 
check. His movement had been a very violent 
one, but all at once it passed into rigidity. He 
stood with every muscle tense, and made neither 
sound nor movement. Slowly the colour died 
out of his face. Then he took a step backwards 
and dropped again into the chair. His eyes were 
fixed upon the strip of carpet which lay between 
him and the writing-table. A small, twisted 
scrap of paper was lying there. David Blake 
looked hard at the paper, but he did not see it. 
What he saw was another torn and twisted thing. 

A man’s professional honour is a very delicate 
thing. David had never held his lightly. If he 
had violated it, he had done so because there 
were great things in the balance. Mary’s happi- 
ness, Mary’s future, Mary’s life. He had be- 
trayed a trust because Mary asked it of him and 
because there was so much in the balance. And 
it had all been illusion. There had been no risk — 
no danger. Nothing but an old man’s last and 
crudest jest. And he, David, had been the old 
man’s dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For 
nothing, it was all for nothing. He had wrenched 
himself for nothing, forfeited his self-respect for 


The Letter 


7i 


nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had 
bidden him, and he had done her bidding, and it 
was all for nothing. A little bleak sunlight came 
in at the window and showed the worn patches 
upon the carpet. David could remember that 
old brown carpet for as long as he could remember 
anything. It had been in his father’s consulting 
room. The writing-table had been there too. 
The room was full of memories of William Blake. 
Old familiar words and looks came back to David 
as he sat there. He remembered many little 
things, and, as he remembered, he despised him- 
self very bitterly. As the moments passed, so his 
self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. 
He rose, pushing his chair so that it fell over with a 
crash, and went into the dining-room. 

Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the 
comer of the door and announced, “Mr. Edward 
Mottisfont in the consulting room, sir.” David 
Blake was sitting at the round table with a de- 
canter in front of him. He got up with a short 
laugh and went to Edward. 

Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appear- 
ance. He was agitated, but beneath the agitation 
there was plainly evident a trace of melancholy 
triumph. 


72 


The Fire Within 


“I ’ve had a letter,” he began. David stood 
facing him. 

“So have I, ” he said. 

Edward’s wave of the hand dismissed as 
irrelevant all letters except his own. “But 
mine — mine was from my uncle, ” he exclaimed. 

“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me 
a copy.” 

“You — you know,” said Edward. Then he 
searched his pockets, and ultimately produced 
a folded letter. 

“You ’ve had a letter like this? He ’s told you? 
You know?” 

“That he’s played us the dirtiest trick on 
record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I ’ve been enjoy- 
ing the knowledge for the best part of an hour. ” 

Edward shook his head. 

“Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have 
often wondered if he was quite responsible. He 
used to say such extraordinary things. If you 
remember, I asked you about it once, and you 
laughed at me. But now, of course, there is no 
doubt about it. His brain had become affected. ” 

David’s lip twitched a little. 

“Mad? Oh, no, you needn’t flatter yourself, 
he was n’t mad. I only hope my wits may last as 


The Letter 


73 


well. He was n’t mad, but he ’s made the biggest 
fools of the lot of us — the biggest fools. Oh, Lord ! 
— how he ’d have laughed. He set the stage, and 
called the cast, and who so ready as we? First 
Murderer — Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner — 
Mary, his wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other 
Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My Lord, he 
never said a truer word than when he wrote me 
down a damn fool!” 

David ended on a note of concentrated bitter- 
ness, and Edward stared at him. 

“ I would much rather believe he was out of his 
mind,” he said uncomfortably. “And he is dead 
— after all, he ’s dead.” 

“Yes,” said David grimly, “he ’s dead.” 

“And thanks to you,” continued Edward, 
“there has been no scandal — or publicity. It 
would really have been dreadful if it had all come 
out. Most — most unpleasant. I know you 
did n’t wish me to say anything. ” 

Edward began to rumple his hair wildly. 
“Mary told me, and of course I know it ’s beastly 
to be thanked, and all that, but I can’t help saying 
that — in fact — I am awfully grateful. And I ’m 
awfully thankful that the matter has been cleared 
up so satisfactorily. If we had n’t got this letter, 


74 


The Fire Within 


well — I don’t like to say such a thing — but any 
one of us might have come to suspect the other. 
It doesn’t sound quite right to say it,” pursued 
Edward apologetically, “but it might have hap- 
pened. You might have suspected me — oh, I 
don’t mean really — I am only supposing, you 
know — or I might have suspected you. And now 
it ’s all cleared up, and no harm done, and as to 
my poor old uncle, he was mad. People who 
commit suicide are always mad. Every one 
knows that.” 

“ Oh, have it your own way, ” said David Blake. 
“He was mad, and now everything is comfortably 
arranged, and we can all settle down with nothing 
on our minds, and live happily ever after. ” 

There was a savage sarcasm in his voice, which 
he did not trouble to conceal. 

“And now, look here, ” he went on with a sudden 
change of manner. He straightened himself and 
looked squarely at Edward Mottisfont. “Those 
letters have got to be kept.” 

“Now I should have thought — ” began 
Edward, but David broke in almost violently. 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t start thinking, 
Edward.” He said: “Just you listen to me. 
These letters have got to be kept. They ’ve 


The Letter 


75 


got to sit in a safe at a lawyer’s. We ’ll seal ’em 
up in the presence of witnesses, an send ’em off. 
We ’re not out of the wood yet. If this business 
were ever to leak out — and, after all, there are 
four of us in it, and two of them are women — if 
it were ever to leak out, we should want these letters 
to save our necks. Yes — our necks. Good Lord, 
Edward, did you never realise your position? 
Did you never realise that any jury in the world 
would have hanged you on the evidence? It was 
damning — absolutely damning. And I come in 
as accessory after the fact. No, thank you, I 
think we ’ll keep the letters, until we ’re past 
hanging. And there ’s another thing — how many 
people have you told? Mary, of course?” 

“Yes, Mary, but no one else,” said Edward. 

David made an impatient movement. 

“ If you ’ve told her, you ’ve told her, ” he said. 
“Now what you ’ve got to do is this: you ’ve got 
to rub it into Mary that it ’s just as important 
for her to hold her tongue now as it was before the 
letter came. She was safe as long as she thought 
your neck was in danger, but do, for Heaven’s 
sake, get it into her head that I ’m dead damned 
broke, if it ever gets out that I helped to hush up a 
case that looked like murder and turned out to be 


76 


The Fire Within 


suicide. The law would n’t hang me, but I should 
probably hang myself. I ’d be broke. Rub that 
in.” 

“She may have told Elizabeth,” said Edward 
hesitatingly. “I’m afraid she may have told 
Elizabeth by now.” 

“Elizabeth doesn’t talk,” said David shortly. 

“Nor does Mary.” Edward’s tone was rather 
aggrieved. 

“Oh, no woman ever talks,” said David. 

He laughed harshly, and Edward went away 
with his feelings of gratitude a little chilled, and 
a faint suspicion in his mind that David had 
been drinking. 


CHAPTER VII 


ELIZABETH CHANTREY 

“ Whatever ways we walk in and whatever dreams come true, 
You still shall say, “ God speed ” to me, and I, “ God go with you.” 

POME days later Elizabeth Chantrey went 
^ away for about a month, to pay a few long- 
promised visits. She went first to an old school- 
friend, then to some relations, and lastly to the 
Mainwarings. Agneta Mainwaring had moved 
to town after her mother's death, and was sharing 
a small flat with her brother Louis, in a very fash- 
ionable quarter. She had been engaged for about 
six months to Douglas Strange, and was expecting 
to marry him as soon as he returned from his 
latest, and most hazardous journey across Equa- 
torial Africa. 

“I thought you were never coming," said 
Agneta, as they sat in the firelight, Louis on the 
farther side of the room, close to the lamp, with 
his head buried in a book. 

77 


78 


The Fire Within 


“ Never, never, never /” repeated Agneta, strok- 
ing the tail of Elizabeth’s white gown affection- 
ately and nodding at every word. She was sitting 
on the curly black hearth-rug, a small vivid crea- 
ture in a crimson dress. Agneta Mainwaring was 
little and dark, passionate, earnest, and frivo- 
lous. A creature of variable moods and intense 
affections, steadfast only where she loved. Eliza- 
beth was watching the firelight upon the big 
square sapphire ring which she always wore. She 
looked up from it now and smiled at Agneta, just 
a smile of the eyes. 

“Well, I am here,” she said, and Agneta went 
on stroking, and exclaimed: 

“Oh, it ’s so good to have you. ” 

“The world not been going nicely?” said 
Elizabeth. 

Agneta frowned. 

“Oh, so, so. Really, Lizabeth, being engaged 
to an explorer is the devil. Sometimes I get a 
letter two days running, and sometimes I don’t 
get one for two months, and I ’ve just been doing 
the two months’ stretch.” 

“Then, ” said Elizabeth, “you ’ll soon be getting 
two letters together, Neta.” 

“Oh, well, I did get one this morning, or I 


Elizabeth Ghantrey 


79 


should n’t be talking about it, ” Agneta flushed and 
laughed, then frowned again. Three little wrin- 
kles appeared upon her nose. ‘ * What worries me is 
that I am such a hopeless materialist about letters. 
Letters are rank materialism. Rank. Two people 
as much in touch with one another as Douglas and 
I ought n’t to need letters. I ’ve no business to 
be dependent on them. We ought to be able to 
reach one another without them. Of course we 
do — really — but we ought to know that we are 
doing it. We ought to be conscious of it. I ’ve 
no business to be dependent on wretched bits of 
paper, and miserable penfuls of ink. I ought to be 
able to do without them. And I ’m a blatant 
materialist. I can’t.” 

Elizabeth laughed a little. 

“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. It’ll all 
come. You ’ll get past letters when you ’re 
ready to get past them. I don’t think your 
materialism is of a very heavy order. It will go 
away if you don’t fuss over it. We ’ll all get past 
letters in time. ” 

Agneta tossed her head. 

“Oh, I don’t suppose there’ll be any let- 
ters in heaven,” she said. “I’m sure I trust 
not. My idea is that we shall sit on nice 


8o 


The Fire Within 


comfy clouds, and play at telephones with 
thought- waves. ” 

Louis shut his book with a bang. 

“Really, Agneta, if that isn't materialism. ” 
He came over and sat down on the hearth-rug be- 
side his sister. They were not at all alike. Where 
Agneta was small, Louis was large. Her hair and 
eyes were black, and his of a dark reddish-brown. 

“I didn’t know you were listening,” she 
said. 

“Well, I was n’t. I just heard, and I give you 
fair warning, Agneta, that if there are going to be 
telephones in your heaven, I ’m going somewhere 
else. I shall have had enough of them here. 
Hear the bells, the silver bells, the tintinabulation 
that so musically swells. From the bells, bells, 
bells, bells — bells, bells, bells.” 

Agneta first pulled Louis’s hair, and then put 
her fingers in her ears. 

“Stop! stop this minute! Oh, Louis, please. 
Oh, Lizabeth, make him stop. That thing always 
drives me perfectly crazy, and he knows it.” 

“All right. It ’s done. I ’ve finished. I ’m 
much more merciful than Poe. I only wanted to 
point out that if that was your idea of heaven, it 
was n’t mine. ” 


Elizabeth Ghantrey 


81 


4 ‘Oh, good gracious!” cried Agneta suddenly. 
She sprang up and darted to the door. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I’ve absolutely and entirely forgotten to 
order any food for to-morrow. Any food what- 
ever. All right, Louis, you won’t laugh when 
you have to lunch on bread and water, and 
Lizabeth takes the afternoon train back to her 
horrible Harford place, because we have starved 
her.” 

Louis gave a resigned sigh and leaned comfort- 
ably back against an empty chair. For some 
moments he gazed dreamily at Elizabeth. Then 
he said : “ How nicely your hair shines. I like you 
all white and gold like that. If Browning had 
known you he need n’t have written. ‘What ’s 
become of all the gold, used to hang and brush 
their bosoms.’ You’ve got your share.” 

“But my hair isn’t golden at all, Louis,” said 
Elizabeth. 

Louis frowned. 

“Yes, it is,” he said, “it’s gold without the 
dross — gold spiritualised. And you ought to 
know better than to pretend. You know as well 
as I do that your hair is a thing of beauty. The 
real joy for ever sort. It ’s no credit to you. 

6 


82 


The Fire Within 


You did n’t make it. And you ought to be pro- 
perly grateful for being allowed to walk about with 
a real live halo. Why should you pretend? If it 
was n’t pretence, you would n’t take so much 
trouble about doing it. You ’d just twist it up 
on a single hairpin. 

“It wouldn’t stay up,” said Elizabeth. 

“I wish it wouldn’t. Oh, Lizabeth, won’t 
you let it down just for once?” 

“No, I won’t,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant 
firmness. 

Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes 
darkened. 

“I don’t see why,” he said; and Elizabeth 
laughed at him. 

“Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?” 

Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last 
book,” he said, “was not only very well reviewed 
by competent and appreciative persons, but I 
would have you to know that it also brought me 
in quite a large and solid cheque. And my poems 
have had what is known as a succes d'estime , 
which means that you and your publisher lose 
money, but the critics say nice things. These 
facts, my dear madam, all point to my having 
emerged from the nursery. ” 


Elizabeth Chantrey 


83 


“Go on emerging, Louis,” said Elizabeth, with 
a little nod of encouragement. Louis appeared 
to be plunged in thought. He frowned, made 
calculations upon his fingers, and finally inquired : 

“How many times have I proposed to you, 
Lizabeth?” 

Elizabeth looked at him with amusement. 

“I really never counted. Do you want me 
to?” 

“No. I think I’ve gpt it right. I think it 
must be eight times, because I know I began 
when I was twenty, and I don’t think I ’ve missed 
a year since. This, ” said Louis, getting on to his 
knees and coming nearer, “this will be number 
nine. ” 

“Oh, Louis, don’t,” said Elizabeth. 

“And why not?” 

“Because it really isn’t kind. Do you want 
me to go away to-morrow? If you propose to me, 
and I refuse you, every possible rule of propriety 
demands that I should immediately return to 
Market Harford. And I don’t want to.” Louis 
hesitated. 

“How long are you staying?” 

“Nice, hospitable young man. Agneta has 
asked me to stay for a fortnight. ” 


8 4 


The Fire Within 


“All right.” Louis sat back upon his heels. 
“ Let ’s talk about books. Have you read Pen- 
der’s last? It ’s a wonder — just a wonder.” 

Elizabeth enjoyed her fortnight’s stay very 
much. She was glad to be away from Market 
Harford, and she was glad to be with Agneta and 
Louis. She saw one or two good plays, had a 
great deal of talk of the kind she had been starving 
for, and met a good many people who were doing 
interesting things. On the last day of her visit 
Agneta said : 

“So you go back to Market Harford for a year. 
Is it because Mr. Mottisfont asked you to?” 

“Partly.” 

There was a little pause. 

“What are you going to do with your life, 
Lizabeth?” 

Elizabeth looked steadily at the blue of her 
ring. Her eyes were very deep. 

“ I don’t know, Neta. I ’m waiting to be told. ” 

Agneta nodded, and looked understanding. 
“And if you aren’t told?” 

“I think I shall be.” 

“But if not?” 

“Well, that would be a telling in itself. If 


Elizabeth Ghantrey 85 

nothing happens before the year is up, I shall 
come up to London, and find some work. There ’s 
plenty. ” 

“ Yes, ” said Agneta. She put her little pointed 
chin in her hands and gazed at Elizabeth. There 
was something almost fierce in her eyes. She knew 
very little about David Blake, but she guessed 
a good deal more. And there were moments 
when it would have given her a great deal of 
pleasure to have spoken her mind on the subject. 

They sat for a little while in silence, and then 
Louis came in, and wandered about the room 
until Agneta exclaimed at him: 

“Do, for goodness’ sake, sit down, Louis! You 
give me the fidgets.” 

Louis drifted over to the hearth. “Have you 
ordered any meals,” he said, with apparent 
irrelevance. 

“Tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner 
again.” Agneta’s tone was vicious. “Is that 
enough for you?” 

“Very well, then, run away and write a letter 
to Douglas. I believe you are neglecting him, 
and there ’s a nice fire in the dining-room. ” 

Agneta rose with outraged dignity. “I don’t 
write my love-letters to order, thank you,” she 


86 


The Fire Within 


said “and you need n’t worry about Douglas. If 
you want me to go away, I don’t mind taking a 
book into the dining-room. Though, if you ’ll 
take my advice — but you won’t — so I ’ll just 
leave you to find out for yourself.” 

Louis shut the door after her, and came back to 
Elizabeth. 

“Number nine,” he observed. 

“No, Louis, don’t.” 

“I ’m going to. You are in for it, Lizabeth. 
Your visit is over, so you can’t accuse me of spoil- 
ing it. Number nine, and a fortnight overdue. 
Here goes. For the ninth time of asking, will you 
marry me?” 

Elizabeth shook her head at him. 

“No, Louis, I won’t,” she said. 

Louis looked at her steadily. 

“ This is the ninth time I have asked you. How 
many times have you taken me seriously, Liza- 
beth? Not once.” 

“I should have been so very sorry to take you 
seriously, you see, Louis dear,” said Elizabeth, 
speaking very sweetly and gently. 

Louis Mainwaring walked to the window and 
stood there in silence for a minute or two. Eliza- 
beth began to look troubled. When he turned 


Elizabeth Ghantrey 87 

round and came back his face was rather 
white. 

“No,” he said, “you ’ve never taken me seri- 
ously — never once. But it ’s been serious enough, 
for me. You never thought it went deep — but 
it did. Some people hide their deep things under 
silence — every one can understand that. Others 
hide theirs under words — a ' great many light 
words. Jests. That ’s been my way. It ’s a 
better mask than the other, but I don’t want any 
mask between us now. I want you to understand. 
We ’ve always talked about my being in love with 
you. We Ve always laughed about it, but now I 
want you to understand. It ’s me, the whole of 
me — all there is — all there ever will be ” 

He was stammering now and almost incoherent. 
His hand shook. Elizabeth got up quickly. 

“Oh, Louis dear, Louis dear,” she said. She 
put her arm half round him, and for a moment he 
leaned his head against her shoulder. When he 
raised it he was trying to smile. 

“Oh, Lady of Consolation,” he said, and then, 
“how you would spoil a man whom you loved! 
There, Lizabeth, you needn’t worry about it. 
You see, I ’ve always known that you would never 
love me.” 


88 


The Fire Within 


“Oh, Louis, but I love you very much, only 
not just like that. ” 

“Yes, I know. I ’ve always known it and 
I ’ve always known that there was some one else 
whom you did love — just like that. What I ’ve 
been waiting for is to see it making you happy. 
And it does n’t make you happy. It never has. 
And, lately, there ’s been something fresh — some- 
thing that has hurt. You ’ve been very unhappy. 
As soon as you came here I knew. What is it? 
Can’t you tell me?” 

Elizabeth sat down again, but she did not turn 
her eyes away. 

“No, Louis, I don’t think I can.” she 
said. 

Louis’s chin lifted. 

“Does Agneta know?” he asked with a quick 
flash of jealousy. 

“No, she does n’t, ” said Elizabeth, reprovingly. 
“And she has never asked.” 

Louis laughed. 

“That ’s for my conscience, I suppose,” he said, 
“but I don’t mind. I can bear it a lot better if 
you have n’t told Agneta. And look here, Liza- 
beth, even if you never tell me a single word, I 
shall always know things about you — things that 


Elizabeth Chantrey 89 

matter. I ’ve always known when things went 
wrong with you, and I always shall. ” 

It was obviously quite as an afterthought that 
he added: 

“Do you mind?” 

“No,” said Elizabeth, slowly, “I don’t think I 
mind. But don’t look too close, Louis dear — not 
just now. It ’s kinder not to. ” 

“All right,” said Louis. 

Then he came over and stood beside her. 1 1 Liza- 
beth, if there ’s anything I can do — any sort or 
kind of thing — you ’re to let me know. You will, 
won’t you? You ’re the best thing in my world, 
and anything that I can do for you would be the 
best day’s work I ever did. If you ’ll just clamp 
on to that we shall be all right.” 

Elizabeth looked up, but before she could speak, 
he bent down, kissed her hastily on the cheek, 
and went out of the room. 

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and 
cried. 

“I suppose Louis has been proposing to you 
again,” was Agneta’s rather cross comment. 
“Lizabeth, what on earth are you crying for?” 

“Oh, Neta, do you hate me?” said Elizabeth 
in a very tired voice. 


90 


The Fire Within 


Agneta knelt down beside her, and began to 
pinch her arm. 

“I would if I could, but I can’t,” she observed 
viciously. “I Ve tried, of course, but I can’t 
do it by myself, and it ’s not the sort of thing you 
can expect religion to be any help in. As if you 
did n’t know that Louis and I simply love your 
littlest finger-nail, and that we ’d do anything for 
you, and that we think it an honour to be your 
friends, and — oh, Lizabeth, if you don’t stop 
crying this very instant, I shall pour all the water 
out of that big flower- vase down the back of your 
neck!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


EDWARD SINGS 

“What ails you, Andrew, my man’s son, 

That you should look so white, 

That you should neither eat by day, 

Nor take your rest by night? ” 

“ I have no rest when I would sleep, 

No peace when I would rise, 

Because of Janet’s yellow hair, 

Because of Janet’s eyes.” 

W HEN Elizabeth Chantrey returned to Mar- 
ket Harford, she did so with quite a clear 
understanding of the difficulties that lay before 
her. Edward had spoken to her of his uncle’s 
wishes, and begged her to fulfil them by remaining 
on in the old house as his and Mary’s guest. 
Apparently it never occurred to him that the 
situation presented any difficulty, or that few 
women would find it agreeable to be guest where 
they had been mistress. Elizabeth was under no 
illusions. She knew that she was putting herself 
in an almost impossible position, but she had made 
91 


92 


The Fire Within 


up her mind to occupy that position for a year. 
She had given David Blake so much already, 
that a little more did not seem to matter. An- 
other year, a little more pain, were all in the day’s 
work. She had given many years and had suf- 
fered much pain. Through the years, through the 
pain, there had been at the back of her mind the 
thought, “If he needed me, and I were not here. ” 
Elizabeth had always known that some day he 
would need her — not love her — but need her. 
And for that she waited. 

Elizabeth returned to Market Harford on a 
fine November afternoon. The sun was shining, 
after two days’ rain, and Elizabeth walked up 
from the station, leaving her luggage to the carrier. 
It was quite a short walk, but she met so many 
acquaintances that she was some time reaching 
home. First, it was old Dr. Bull with his square 
face and fringe of stiff grey beard who waved his 
knobbly stick at her, and waddled across the 
road. He was a great friend of Elizabeth’s, and 
he greeted her warmly. 

“Now, now, Miss Elizabeth, so you’ve not 
quite deserted us, hey? Glad to be back, hey?” 

“Yes, very glad,” said Elizabeth, smiling. 

“And every one will be glad to see you, all your 


Edward Sings 


93 


friends. Hey? I ’m glad, Edward and Mary ’ll 
be glad, and David — hey? David ’s a friend of 
yours, isn’t he? Used to be, I know, in the old 
days. Prodigious allies you were. Always in 
each other’s pockets. Same books — same walks — 
same measles — ” he laughed heartily, and then 
broke off. “ David wants his friends,” he said, 
“for the matter of that, every one wants friends, 
hey? But you get David to come and see you, 
my dear. He won’t want much persuading, hey? 
Well, well, I won’t keep you. I must n’t waste 
your time. Now that I ’m idle, I forget that 
other people have business, hey? And I see Miss 
Dobell coming over to speak to you. Now, I 
would n’t waste her time for the world. Not for 
the world, my dear Miss Elizabeth. Good-day, 
good-day, good-day. ” 

His eyes twinkled as he raised his hat, and he 
went off at an astonishing rate, as Miss Dobell 
picked her way across the road. 

“Such a fine man, Dr. Bull, I always think,” 
she remarked in her precise little way. Every 
word she uttered had the effect of being enclosed 
in a separate little water-tight compartment. “I 
really miss him, if I may say so. Oh, yes; and I 
am not the only one of his old patients who feels 


94 


The Fire Within 


it a deprivation to have lost his services. Oh, no. 
Young men are so unreliable. They begin well, 
but they are unreliable. Oh, yes, sadly unreli- 
able,” repeated Miss Dobell with emphasis. 

She and Elizabeth were crossing the bridge as 
she spoke. Away to the left, above the water, 
Elizabeth could see the sunlight reflected from 
the long line of windows which faced the river. 
The trees before them were almost leafless, and it 
was easy to distinguish one house from another. 
David Blake lived in the seventh house, and Miss 
Dobell was gazing very pointedly in that direction, 
and nodding her head. 

“I dislike gossip,” she said. “I set my face 
against gossip, my dear Elizabeth, I do not ap- 
prove of it. I do not talk scandal nor permit it to 
be talked in my presence. But I am not blind, or 
deaf. Oh, no. We should be thankful when we 
have all our faculties, and mine are unimpared, 
oh, yes, quite unimpaired, although I am not 
quite as young as you are. ” 

* ‘ Yes ? ” said Elizabeth. 

Miss Dobell became rather flustered. “ I have 
a little errand,” she said hurriedly. “A little 
errand, my dear Elizabeth. I will not keep you, 
oh, no, I must not keep you now. I shall see you 


Edward Sings 


95 


later, I shall come and see you, but I will not detain 
you now. Oh, no, Mary will be waiting for you. ” 

“So you have really come,” said Mary a little 
later. 

After kissing her sister warmly, she had allowed 
a slight air of offence to appear. “ I had begun to 
think you had missed your train. I am afraid the 
tea will be rather strong, I had it made punctually, 
you see. I was beginning to think that you 
had n’t been able to tear yourself away from 
Agneta after all. ” 

“Now, Molly — ” said Elizabeth, protestingly. 

But Mary was not to be turned aside. “Of 
course you would much rather have stayed, I 
know that. Will you have bread and butter or 
tea-cake? When Mr. Mottisfont died, I said to 
myself, ‘Now she ’ll go and live with Agneta, and 
she might just as well be dead' That ’s why I was 
quite pleased when Edward came and told me 
that Mr. Mottisfont had said you were to stay on 
here for a year. Of course, as I said to Edward, 
he had no right to make any such condition, and 
if it had been any one but you, I should n’t have 
liked it at all. That ’s what I said to Edward — 
‘It really isn ’t fair, but Elizabeth isn ’t like other 
people. She won’t try and run the house over my 


96 


The Fire Within 


head, and she won’t want to be always with us.’ 
You see, married people do like to have their 
evenings, but as I said to Edward, 'Elizabeth 
would much rather be in her own little room, with 
a book, than sitting with us.’ And you would, 
would n’t you?” 

"Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth laughing. 

The spectacle of Mary being tactful always 
made her laugh. 

"Of course when any one comes in in the even- 
ing — that ’s different. Of course you ’ll join us 
then. But you ’d rather be here as a rule, would n’t 
you?” 

"Oh, you know I love my little room. It was 
nice of you to have tea here, Molly,” said Eliza- 
beth. 

"Yes, I thought you’d like it. And then I 
wanted the rest of the house to be a surprise to 
you. When we ’ve had tea I want to show you 
everything. Of course your rooms have n’t been 
touched, you said you ’d rather they were n’t ; but 
everything else has been done up, and I really 
think it ’s very nice. I ’ve been quite excited 
over it. ” 

"Give me a little more tea, Molly,” said 
Elizabeth. 


Edward Sings 


97 


As she leaned forward with her cup in her hand, 
she asked casually: ‘‘Have you seen much of 
David lately?” 

“ Oh, yes, ” said Mary, “he ’s here very often. ” 
She pursed her lips a little. “I think David is a 
very curious person, Liz. I don’t understand him 
at all. I think he is very difficult to understand. ” 

“Is he, Molly?” 

Elizabeth looked at her sister with something 
between anxiety and amusement. 

“Yes, very. He ’s quite changed, it seems to 
me. I could understand his being upset just 
after Mr. Mottisfont’s death. We were all upset 
then. I am sure I never felt so dreadful in my 
life. It made me quite ill. But afterwards,” 
Mary’s voice dropped to a lower tone, “afterwards 
when the letter had come, and everything was 
cleared up — well, you ’d have thought he would 
have been all right again, would n’t you? And 
instead, he has just gone on getting more and more 
unlike himself. You know, he was so odd when 
Edward went to see him that, really,” — Mary 
hesitated — “Edward thought — well, he wondered 
whether David had been drinking.” 

“Nonsense, Molly!” 

“Oh, it’s not only Edward — everybody has 


7 


98 


The Fire Within 


noticed how changed he is. Have you got any- 
thing to eat, Liz? Have some of the iced cake; 
it ’s from a recipe of Miss Dobell’s and it ’s quite 
nice. What was I saying? Oh, about David — 
well, it ’s true, Liz — Mrs. Havergill told Markham ; 
now, Liz, what ’s the sense of your looking at me 
like that? Of course I should n’t dream of talking 
to an ordinary servant, but considering Markham 
has known us since we were about two — Markham 
takes an interest, a real interest, and when Mrs. 
Havergill told her that she was afraid David was 
taking a great deal more than was good for him, 
and she wished his friends could stop it, why, 
Markham naturally told me. She felt it her 
duty. I expect she thought I might have an 
influence — as I hope I have. That ’s why I 
encourage David to come here. I think it ’s so 
good for him. I think it makes such a difference 
to young men if they have a nice home to come to, 
and it ’s very good for them to see married people 
fond of each other, and happy together, like 
Edward and I are. Don’t you think so?” 

“I don’t know, Molly,” said Elizabeth. “Are 
people talking about David?” 

“Yes, they are. Of course I haven’t said a 
word, but people are noticing how different he is. 


Edward Sings 


99 


I don’t see how they can help it, and yesterday 
when I was having tea with Mrs. Codrington, Miss 
Dobell began to hint all sorts of things, and there 
was quite a scene. You know how devoted Mrs. 
Codrington is! She really quite frightened poor 
little Miss Hester. I can tell you, I was glad that 
I had n’t said anything. Mrs. Codrington always 
frightens me. She looks so large, and she speaks 
so loud. I was quite glad to get away. ” 

“I like Mrs. Codrington,” said Elizabeth. 

“Oh, well, so do I. But I like her better when 
she ’s not angry. Oh, by the way, Liz, talking of 
David, do you know that I met Katie Eller ton 
yesterday, and — how long is it since Dr. Ellerton 
died?” 

“More than two years.” 

“Well, she has gone quite out of mourning. 
You know how she went on at first — she was 
going to wear weeds always, and never change any- 
thing, and as to ever going into colours again, she 
could n’t imagine how any one could do it ! And 
I met her out yesterday in quite a bright blue 
coat and skirt. What do you think of that? ” 

“Oh, Molly, you’ve been going out to too 
many tea-parties ! Why should n’t poor Katie 
go out of mourning? I think it ’s very sensible 


100 


The Fire Within 


of her. I have always been so sorry for 
her. ” 

Mary assumed an air of lofty virtue. “I used 
to be. But now, I don’t approve of her at all. 
She ’s just doing her very best to catch David 
Blake. Every one can see it. If that wretched 
little Ronnie has so much as a thorn in his finger, 
she sends for David. She ’s making herself the 
laughing-stock of the place. I think it ’s simply 
horrid. I don’t approve of second marriages at all. 
I never do see how any really nice-minded woman 
can marry again. And it ’s not only the marrying, 
but to run after a man, like that — it ’s quite dread- 
ful! I am sure David would be most unhappy if 
he married her. It would be a dreadfully bad 
thing for him. ” 

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. 

“ How sweet the hour that sets us free 
To sip our scandal, and our tea,” 

she observed. 

Mary coloured. 

“I never talk scandal, ” she said in an offended 
voice, and Elizabeth refrained from telling her 
that Miss Dobell had made the same remark. 

All the time that Mary was showing her over 


Edward Sings 


IOI 


the house, Elizabeth was wondering whether it 
would be such a dreadfully bad thing for David 
to marry Katie Ellerton. Ronnie was a dear 
little boy, and David loved children, and Katie — 
Katie was one of those gentle, clinging creatures 
whom men adore and spoil. If she cared for him, 
and he grew to care for her — Elizabeth turned the 
possibilities over and over in her mind, wonder- 
ing — 

She wondered still more that evening, when 
David Blake came in after dinner. He had 
changed. Elizabeth looked at him and saw things 
in his face which she only half understood. He 
looked ill and tired, but both illness and weariness 
appeared to her to be incidental. Behind them 
there was something else, something much stronger 
and yet more subtle, some deflection of the man’s 
whole nature. 

Edward and Mary did not disturb themselves 
at David’s coming. They were at the piano, 
and Edward nodded casually, whilst Mary merely 
waved her hand and smiled. 

David said “How do you do?” to Elizabeth, 
and sat down by the fire. He was in evening dress, 
but somehow he looked out of place in Mary’s 
new white drawing-room. Edward had put in 


102 


The Fire Within 


electric light all over the house, and here it shone 
through rosy shades. The room was all rose and 
white — roses on the chintz, a frieze of roses 
upon the walls, and a rose-coloured carpet on 
the floor. Only the two lamps over the piano 
were lighted. They shone on Mary. She was 
playing softly impassioned chords in support of 
Edward, who exercised a pleasant tenor voice 
upon the lays of Lord Henry Somerset. Mary 
played accompaniments with much sentiment. 
Occasionally, when the music was easy, she shot 
an adoring glance at Edward, a glance to which 
he duly responded, when not preoccupied with 
a note beyond his compass. 

Elizabeth was tolerant of lovers, and Mary’s 
little sentimentalities, like Mary’s airs of virtuous 
matronhood, were often quite amusing to watch; 
but to-night, with David Blake as a fourth person 
in the room, Elizabeth found amusement merging 
into irritation and irritation into pain. Except 
for that lighted circle about the piano, the room 
lay all in shadow. There was a soft dusk upon it, 
broken every now and then by gleams of firelight. 
David Blake sat back in his chair, and the dimness 
of the room hid his face, except when the fire 
blazed up and showed Elizabeth how changed it 


Edward Sings 


103 


was. She had been away only a month, and he 
looked like a stranger. His attitude was that of a 
very weary man. His head rested on his hand, 
and he looked all the time at Mary in the rosy glow 
which bathed her. When she looked up at Ed- 
ward, he saw the look, saw the light shine down 
into her dark eyes and sparkle there. Not a look, 
not a smile was lost, and whilst he watched Mary, 
Elizabeth watched him. Elizabeth was very glad 
of the dimness that shielded her. It was a relief 
to drop the mask of a friendly indifference, to be 
able to watch David with no thought except for 
him. Her heart yearned to him as never before. 
She divined in him a great hunger — a great pain. 
And this hunger, this pain, was hers. The longing 
to give, to assuage, to comfort, welled up in her 
with a suddenness and strength that were almost 
startling. Elizabeth took her thought in a strong 
hand, forcing it along accustomed channels from 
the plane where love may be thwarted, to that 
other plane, where love walks unashamed and 
undeterred, and gives her gifts, no man forbidding 
her. Elizabeth sat still, with folded hands. Her 
love went out to David, like one ripple in 
a boundless, golden sea, from which they drew 
their being, and in which they lived and moved. 


104 The Fire Within 

A sense of light and peace came down upon 
her. 

Edward’s voice was filling the room. It was 
quite a pleasant voice, and if it never varied into 
expression, at least it never went out of tune, 
and every word was distinct. 

“Ah, well, I know the sadness 

That tears and rends your heart, 

How that from all life’s gladness 
You stand far, far apart — ” 

sang Edward, in tones of the most complete 
unconcern. 

It was Mary who supplied all the sentiment 
that could be wished for. She dwelt on the chords 
with an almost superfluous degree of feeling, and 
her eyes were quite moist. 

At any other time this combination of Edward 
and Lord Henry Somerset would have entertained 
Elizabeth not a little, but just now there was no 
room in her thoughts for any one but David. 
The light that was upon her gave her vision. 
She looked upon David with eyes that had grown 
very clear, and as she looked she understood. 
That he had changed, deteriorated, she had seen 
at the first glance. Now she discerned in him the 


Edward Sings 


105 


cause of such an alteration — something wrenched 
and twisted. The scene in her little brown room 
rose vividly before her. When David had allowed 
Mary to sway him, he had parted with something, 
which he could not now recall. He had broken vio- 
lently through his own code, and the broken thing 
was failing him at every turn. Mary’s eyes, Mary’s 
voice, Mary’s touch — these things had waked in 
him something beyond the old passion. The 
emotional strain of that scene had carried him be- 
yond his self-control. A feverish craving was upon 
him, and his whole nature burned in the flame of it. 

Edward had passed to another song. 

“One more kiss from my darling one,” he sang 
in a slightly perfunctory manner. His voice was 
getting tired, and he seemed a little absent-minded 
for a lover who was about to plunge into Eternity. 
The manner in which he requested death to come 
speedily was a trifle unconvincing. As he began 
the next verse David made a sudden movement. 
A log of wood upon the fire had fallen sharply, and 
there was a quick upward rush of flame. David 
looked round, facing the glow, and as he did so his 
eyes met Elizabeth’s. Just for one infinitesimal 
moment something seemed to pass from her to 
him. It was one of those strange moments which 


io6 


The Fire Within 


are not moments of time at all, and are therefore 
not subject to time’s laws. Elizabeth Chantrey’s 
eyes were full of peace. Full, too, of a passionate 
gentleness. It was a gentleness which for an 
instant touched the sore places in David’s soul 
with healing, and for that one instant David had a 
glimpse of something very strong, very tender, 
that was his, and yet incomprehensibly withheld 
from his understanding. It was one of those 
instantaneous flashes of thought — one of those 
gleams of recognition which break upon the dul- 
ness of material sense. Before and after — dark- 
ness, the void, the unstarred night, a chaos of 
things forgotten. But for one dazzled instant, 
the lightning stab of Truth, unrealised. 

Elizabeth did not look away, or change colour. 
The peace was upon her still. She smiled a little, 
and as the moment passed, and the dark closed in 
again upon David’s mind, she saw a spark of 
rather savage humour come into his eyes. 

“Then come Eternity ” 

“No, that’s enough, Mary, I’m absolutely 
hoarse, ’’ remarked Edward, all in the same breath, 
and with very much the same expression. 

Mary got up, and began to shut the piano. 
The light shone on her white, uncovered neck. 


CHAPTER IX 


MARY IS SHOCKED 

Through fire and frost and snow 
I see you go, 

I see your feet that bleed, 

My heart bleeds too. 

I, who would give my very soul for you, 

What can I do? 

I cannot help your need. 

HAT first evening was one of many others, 



1 all on very much the same pattern. David 
Blake would come in, after tea, or after dinner, sit 
for an hour in almost total silence, and then go 
away again. Every time that he came, Eliza- 
beth’s heart sank a little lower. This change, this 
obscuring of the man she loved, was an unreality, 
but how some unrealities have power to hurt us. 

December brought extra work to the Market 
Harford doctors. There was an epidemic of 
measles amongst the children, combined with one 
of influenza amongst their elders. David Blake 
stood the extra strain but ill. He was slipping 


io8 


The Fire Within 


steadily down the hill. His day’s work followed 
only too often upon a broken or sleepless night, 
and to get through what had to be done, or to 
secure some measure of sleep, he had recourse more 
and more frequently to stimulant. If no patient 
of his ever saw him the worse for drink, he was 
none the less constantly under its influence. If 
it did not intoxicate him, he came to rely upon 
its stimulus, and to distrust his unaided strength. 
He could no longer count upon his nerve, and 
the fear of all that nerve failure may involve 
haunted him continually and drove him down. 

“Look here, Blake, you want a change. Why 
don’t you go away?” said Tom Skeffington. It 
was a late January evening, and he had dropped 
in for a smoke and a chat. “The press of work 
is over now, and I could very well manage the lot 
for a fortnight or three weeks. Will you go?” 

“No, I won’t,” said David shortly. 

Young Skeffington paused. It was not much 
after six in the evening, and David’s face was 
flushed, his hand unsteady. 

“Look here, Blake,” he said, and then stopped, 
because David was staring at him out of eyes that 
had suddenly grown suspicious. 

“Well?” said David, still staring. 


Mary Is Shocked 


109 


“Well, I should go away if I were you — go to 
Switzerland, do some winter sports. Get a thor- 
ough change. Come back yourself again. ” 

There was ever so slight an emphasis on the 
last few words, and David flashed into sudden 
anger. 

“Mind your own business, and be damned to 
you, Skeffington,” he cried. 

Tom Skeffington shrugged his shoulders. 

“Oh, certainly,” he said, and made haste to 
be gone. 

Blake in this mood was quite impracticable. 
He had no mind for a scene. 

David sat on, with a tumbler at his elbow. So 
they wanted him out of the way. That was the 
third person who had told him he needed a change 
— the third in one week. Edward was one, and 
old Dr. Bull, and now Skeffington. Yes, of course, 
Skeffington would like him out of the way, so as 
to get all the practice into his own hands. Edward 
too. Was it this morning, or yesterday morning, 
that Edward had asked him when he was going 
to take a holiday? Now he came to think of it, 
it was yesterday morning. And he supposed that 
Edward wanted him out of the way too. Per- 
haps he went too often to Edward’s house. David 


no 


The Fire Within 


began to get angry. Edward was an ungrateful 
hound. “ Damned ungrateful, ” said David’s 
muddled brain. The idea of going to see Mary 
began to present itself to him. If Edward did not 
like it, Edward could lump it. He had been told 
to come whenever he liked. Very well, he liked 
now. Why should n’t he? 

He got up and went out into the cold. Then, 
when he was half-way up the High Street he re- 
membered that Edward had gone away for a couple 
of days. It occurred to him as a very agreeable 
circumstance. Mary would be alone, and they 
would have a pleasant, friendly time together. 
Mary would sit in the rosy light and play to him, 
not to Edward, and sing in that small sweet voice 
of hers — not to Edward, but to him. 

It was a cold, crisp night, and the frosty air 
heightened the effect of the stimulant which he 
had taken. He had left his own house flushed, 
irritable, and warm, but he arrived at the Mottis- 
fonts’ as unmistakably drunk as a man may be who 
is still upon his legs. 

He brushed past Markham in the hall before 
she had time to do more than notice that his 
manner was rather odd, and she called after him 
that Mrs. Mottisfont was in the drawing-room. 


Mary Is Shocked 


hi 


David went up the stairs walking quite steadily, 
but his brain, under the influence of one idea, 
appeared to work in a manner entirely divorced 
from any volition of his. 

Mary was sitting before the fire, in the rosy 
glow of his imagining. She wore a dim purple 
gown, with a border of soft dark fur. A book 
lay upon her lap, but she was not reading. Her 
head, with its dark curls, rested against the rose- 
patterned chintz of the chair. Her skin was as 
white as a white rose leaf. Her lips as softly red 
as real red roses. A little amethyst heart hung 
low upon her bosom and caught the light. There 
was a bunch of violets at her waist. The room 
was sweet with them. 

Mary looked up half startled as David Blake 
came in. He shut the door behind him, with a 
push, and she was startled outright when she saw 
his face. He looked at her with glazed eyes, and 
smiled a meaningless and foolish smile. 

“Edward is out,” said Mary, “he is away.” 
And then she wished that she had said anything 
else. She looked at the bell, and wondered where 
Elizabeth was. Elizabeth had said something 
about going out — one of her sick people. 

“ Yes — out, ” said David, still smiling. “That ’s 


1 12 


The Fire Within 


why I ’ve come. He ’s out — Edward ’s out — 
gone away. You ’ll play to me — not to Edward 
— to-night. You ’ll sit in this nice pink light and 
— play to me, won’t you — Mary dear?” The 
words slipped into one another, tripped, jostled, 
and came with a run. 

David advanced across the room, moving with 
caution, and putting each foot down slowly and 
carefully. His irritability had vanished. He felt 
instead a pleasant sense of warmth and satisfac- 
tion. He let himself sink into a chair and gazed 
at Mary. 

“Le’s sit down — and have nice long talk,” 
he said in an odd, thick voice; “we haven’t had 
— nice long talk — for months. Le ’s talk now.” 

Mary began to tremble. Except in the streets, 
she had never seen a man drunk before, and even 
in the streets, passing by on the other side of the 
road, under safe protection, and with head averted, 
she had felt sick and terrified. What she felt 
now she hardly knew. She looked at the bell. 
She would have to pass quite close to David before 
she could reach it. Elizabeth — she might ring 
and ask if Elizabeth had come in. Yes, she 
might do that. She made a step forward, but 
as she reached to touch the bell, David leaned 


Mary Is Shocked 


ii3 

sideways, with a sudden heavy jerk, and caught 
her by the wrist. 

“What ’s that for?” he asked. 

Suspicion roused in him again, and he frowned 
as he spoke. His face was very red, and his eyes 
looked black. Mary had cried out, when he 
caught her wrist. Now, as he continued to hold 
it, she stared at him in helpless silence. Then 
quite suddenly she burst into hysterical tears. 

“Let me go — oh, let me go! Go away, you ’re 
not fit to be here! You ’re drunk. Let me go at 
once! How dare you?” 

David continued to hold her wrist, not of any 
set purpose, but stupidly. He seemed to have for- 
gotten to let it go. The heat and pressure of his 
hand, his slow vacant stare, terrified Mary out 
of all self-control. She tried to pull her hand 
away, and as David’s clasp tightened, and she 
felt her own helplessness, she screamed aloud, and 
almost as she did so the door opened sharply and 
Elizabeth Chantrey came into the room. She 
wore a long green coat, and dark furs, and her 
colour was bright and clear with exercise. For 
one startled second she stood just inside the room, 
with her hand upon the door. Then, as she made 
a step forward, David relaxed his grasp, and 


The Fire Within 


1 14 

Mary, wrenching her hand away, ran sobbing to 
meet her sister. 

“Oh, Liz! Oh, Liz!” she cried. 

Elizabeth was cold to the very heart. David’s 
face — the heavy, animal look upon it — and Mary’s 
frightened pallor, the terror in her eyes. What 
had happened? 

She caught Mary by the arm. 

“What is it?” 

“He held me — he wouldn’t let me go. He 
caught my wrist when I was going to ring 
the bell, and held it. Make him go away, 
Liz.” 

Elizabeth drew a long breath of relief. She 
scarcely knew what she had feared, but she felt 
suddenly as if an intolerable weight had been 
lifted from her mind. The removal of this weight 
set her free to think and act. 

“Molly, hush! Do you hear me, hush! Pull 
yourself together! Do you know I heard you 
scream half-way up the stairs? Do you want the 
servants to hear too?” 

She spoke in low, rapid tones, and Mary caught 
her breath like a child. 

“But he ’s tipsy, Liz. Oh, Liz, make him go 
away,” she whispered. 


Mary Is Shocked 


ii5 

David had got upon his feet. He was looking 
at the two women with a puzzled frown. 

“What ’s the matter?” he said slowly, and 
Mary turned on him with a sudden spurt of 
temper. 

“I wonder you ’re not ashamed,” she said in 
rather a trembling voice. “I do wonder you ’re 
not — and will you please go away at once, or do 
you want the servants to come in, and every one to 
know how disgracefully you have behaved?” 

“Molly, hush!” said Elizabeth again. 

Her own colour died away, leaving her very pale. 
Her eyes were fixed on David with a look between 
pity and appeal. She left Mary and went to him. 

“ David, ” she said, putting her hand on his arm, 
“won’t you go home now? It ’s getting late. 
It ’s nearly dinner time, and I ’m afraid we can’t 
ask you to stay to-night.” 

Something in her manner sobered David a 
little. Mary had screamed — why? What had he 
said to her — or done? She was angry. Why? 
Why did Elizabeth look at him like that? His 
mind was very much confused. Amid the con- 
fusion an idea presented itself to him. They 
thought that he was drunk. Well, he would 
show them, he would show them that he was not 


Ii6 


The Fire Within 


drunk. He stood for a moment endeavouring to 
bring the confusion of his brain into something 
like order. Then without a word he walked past 
Mary, and out of the room, walking quite steadily 
because a sober man walks steadily and he had 
to show them that he was sober. 

Mary stood by the door listening. “Liz,” 
she whispered, “he hasn’t gone down-stairs.” 
Her terror returned. “Oh, what is he doing? 
He has gone down the passage to Edward’s 
room. Oh, do you think he ’s safe? Liz, ring 
the bell — do ring the bell.” 

Elizabeth shook her head. She came forward 
and put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. 

“No, Molly, it’s all right,” she said. She, 
too, listened, but Mary broke in on the silence 
with half a sob. 

“You don’t know how he frightened me. You 
don’t know how dreadful he was — like a great 
stupid animal. Oh, I don’t know how he dared 
to come to me like that. And my wrist aches 
still, it does, indeed. Oh! Liz, he ’s coming back. ” 

They heard his steps coming along the passage, 
heavy, deliberate steps. Mary moved quickly 
away from the door, but Elizabeth stood still, and 
David Blake touched her dress as he came back 


Mary Is Shocked 117 

into the room and shut the door behind him. His 
hair was wet from a liberal application of cold 
water. His face was less flushed and his eyes had 
lost the vacant look. He was obviously making 
a very great effort, and as obviously Mary had no 
intention of responding to it. She stood and 
looked at him, and ceased to be afraid. This was 
not the stranger who had frightened her. This 
was David Blake again, the man whom she could 
play upon, and control. The fright in her eyes 
gave place to a dancing spark of anger. 

“I thought I asked you to go away, ” she said, 
and David winced at the coldness of her voice. 

“Will you please go?” 

“Mary ” 

“If you want to apologise you can do so later 
— when you are fit” said Mary, her brows arched 
over very scornful eyes. 

David was still making a great effort at self- 
control. He had turned quite white, and his eyes 
had rather a dazed look. 

“Mary, don’t,” he said, and there was so 
much pain in his voice that Elizabeth made a half 
step towards him, and then stopped, because it 
was not any comfort of hers that he desired. 

Mary’s temper was up, and she was not to be 


1 18 


The Fire Within 


checked. She meant to have her say, and if it 
hurt David, why, so much the better. He had 
given her a most dreadful fright, and he deserved 
to be hurt. It would be very good for him. 
Anger reinforced by a high moral motive is indeed 
a potent weapon. Mary wielded it unmerci- 
fully. 

“Don't — don’t," she said. “Oh, of course 
not. You behave disgracefully — you take advan- 
tage of Edward’s being away — you come here 
drunk — and I ’m not to say a word ” 

Her eyes sparkled, and her head was high. She 
gave a little angry laugh, and turned towards the 
bell. 

“Will you go, please, or must I ring for Mark- 
ham?’’ 

At her movement, and the sound of her laughter, 
David’s self-control gave way, suddenly and com- 
pletely. The blood rushed violently to his head. 
He took a long step towards her, and she stopped 
where she was in sheer terror. 

“You laugh,’’ he said, in a low tone of con- 
centrated passion — “you laugh ’’ 

Then his voice leaped into fury. “I’ve sold 
my soul for you, and you laugh. I ’m in hell for 
you, and you laugh. I ’m drunk, and you laugh. 


Mary Is Shocked 


119 

My God, for that at least you shall never laugh at 

me again. By God, you shan’t ” 

He stood over her for a moment, looking down 
on her with terrible eyes. Then he turned and 
went stumbling to the door, and so out, and, in 
the dead silence that followed, they heard the 
heavy front door swing to behind him. 

Mary was clinging to a chair. 

“Oh, Liz,” she whispered faintly, but Eliza- 
beth turned and went out of the room without 
a single word. 


CHAPTER X 


EDWARD IS PUT OUT 

That which the frost can freeze, 

That which is burned of the fire, 

Cast it down, it is nothing worth 
In the ways of the Heart’s Desire. 

Foot or hand that offends, 

Eye that shrinks from the goal, 

Cast them forth, they are nothing worth, 

And fare with the naked soul. 

M ARY did not tell Edward about the scene 
with David Blake. 

“You know, Liz, he behaved shamefully, but 
I don’t want there to be a quarrel with Edward, 
and it would be sure to make a quarrel. And 
then people would talk, and there ’s no knowing 
what they would say. I think it would be per- 
fectly dreadful to be talked about. I ’m sure I 
can’t think how Katie Ellerton can stand it. 
Really, every one is talking about her.” 

In her heart of hearts Mary was a little flattered 
at David’s last outburst. She would not for the 


120 


Edward Is Put Out 


121 


world have admitted that this was the case, but it 
certainly contributed to her resolution not to tell 
Edward. 

“I suppose some people would never forgive 
him,” she said to Elizabeth, “but I don’t think 
that ’s right, do you? I don’t think it ’s at all 
Christian. I don’t think one ought to be hard. 
He might do something desperate. I saw him go 
into Katie Ellerton’s only this morning. I think 
I ’ll write him a little note, not referring to any- 
thing of course, and ask him if he won’t come in to 
supper on Sundays. Then he ’ll see that I mean 
to forgive him, and there won’t be any more fuss. ” 

Sunday appeared to be quite a suitable day 
upon which to resume the r61e of guardian angel. 
Mary felt a pleasant glow of virtue as she wrote 
her little note and sent it off to David. 

David Blake did not accept either the invitation 
or the olive branch. His anger against Mary was 
still stronger than his craving for her presence. 
He wrote a polite excuse and sat all that evening 
with his eyes fixed upon a book, which he made no 
pretence of reading. He had more devils than one 
to contend with just now. David had a strong will, 
and he was putting the whole strength of it into 
fighting the other craving, the craving for drink. 


1 22 


The Fire Within 


In his sudden heat of passion he had taken an 
oath that he meant to keep. He had been drunk, 
and Mary had laughed at him. Neither Mary nor 
any one else should have that cause for mocking 
laughter again, and he sat nightly with a decanter 
at his elbow. 

“And,” as Mrs. Havergill remarked, “never 
touching a mortal drop,” because if he was to 
down the devil at all he meant to down him in a 
set battle, and not to spend his days in ignominious 
flight. 

Mrs. Havergill prognosticated woe to Sarah, 
with a mournful zest. 

“Them sudden changes is n’t ’olesome, and I 
don’t hold with them, Sarah, my girl. One young 
man I knew, Maudsley ’is name was, he got the 
’orrors, and died a-raving. And all through being 
cut off his drink too sudden. He broke ’is leg, and 
’is mother, she said, ‘Now I ’ll break ’im of the 
drink.’ A very strict Methody woman, were 
Jane Ann Maudsley. ‘Now I ’ll break ’im,’ says 
she; and there she sits and watches ’im, and the 
pore feller ’offering for whisky, just fair ’offering. 
‘Gemme a drop, Mother,’ says he. ‘Not I,’ says 
she. ‘It ’s ’ell fire, William,’ says she. ‘I ’m all 
on fire now, Mother,’ says he. ‘Better burn now 


Edward Is Put Out 


123 


than in ’ell, William,’ says Jane Ann; and then 
the ’orrors took him, and he died. A fine, proper 
young man as ever stepped, and very sweet on me 
before I took up with Havergill, ” concluded Mrs. 
Havergill meditatively, whilst Sarah shivered, 
and wished, as she afterwards confessed to a friend, 
1 ‘that Mrs. Havergill would be more cheerful like 
— just once in a way, for a change, as it were. ” 

“ For she do fair give a girl the ’ump sometimes,” 
concluded Sarah, after what was for her quite a 
long speech. 

Mrs. Havergill was a very buxom and comely 
person of unimpeachable respectability, but her 
fund of doleful reminiscence had depressed more 
than Sarah. David had been known to complain 
of it between jest and earnest. On one such 
occasion, at a tea-party to which Mary Chantrey 
had inveigled him, Miss Dobell ventured a mild 
protest. 

“But she is such a treasure. Oh, yes. Your 
dear mother always found her so.” 

David winced a little. His mother had not 
been dead very long then. He regarded Miss 
Dobell with gravity. 

“ I have always wondered, ” he said, “whether it 
was an early apprenticeship to a ghoul which has 


124 


The Fire Within 


imparted such a mortuary turn to Mrs. Havergiirs 
conversation, or whether it is due to the fact of 
her having a few drops of Harvey’s Sauce in hei 
veins.” 

“Harvey’s Sauce?” inquired the bewildered 
Miss Dobell. 

David explained in his best professional manner. 

“I said Harvey’s Sauce because it is an old 
and cherished belief of mind that the same talented 
gentleman invented the sauce and composed the 
well-known ‘Meditations among the Tombs.’ 
The only point upon which I feel some uncertainty 
is this: Did he compose the Meditations because 
the sauce had disagreed with him, or did he invent 
the sauce as a sort of cheerful antidote to the 
Meditations? Now which do you suppose, Miss 
Dobell?” 

Miss Dobell became very much fluttered. 

“Oh, I ’m afraid — ” she began. “ I really had 
no idea that Harvey’s Sauce was an unwholesome 
condiment. Yes, indeed, I fear that I cannot be 
of any great assistance, or in fact of any assistance 
at all. No, oh, no. I fear, Dr. Blake, that you 
must ask some one else who is better informed 
than myself. Oh, yes.” 

Afterwards she confided to Mary Chantrey 


Edward Is Put Out 


125 

that she had never heard of the work in question. 
“Have you, my dear?” 

“No, never,” said Mary, who was not greatly 
attracted by the title. Girls of two-and-twenty 
with a disposition to meditate among the tombs 
are mercifully rare. 

“But,” pursued little Miss Dobell with a vir- 
tuous lift of the chin, “the title has a religious 
sound — yes, quite a religious sound. I hope, oh, 
yes, indeed, I hope that Dr. Blake has no dreadful 
sceptical opinions. They are so very shocking,” 
and Mary said, “Yes, they are, and I hope 
not, too.” Even in those days she was a little 
inclined to play at being David’s guardian angel. 

Those days were two years old now. Some- 
times it seemed to David that they belonged to 
another life. 

Meanwhile he had his devil to fight. In the 
days that followed he fought the devil, and beat 
him, but without either pride or pleasure in the 
victory, for, deprived of stimulant, he fell again in- 
to the black pit of depression. Insomnia stood by 
his pillow and made the nights longer and more 
dreadful than the longest, gloomiest day. 

Mary met him in the High Street one day, and 
was really shocked at his looks. She reproached 


126 


The Fire Within 


herself for neglecting him, smiled upon him 
sweetly, and said: 

“Oh, David, do come and see us. Edward 
will be so pleased. He got a parcel of butterflies 
from Java last week, and he would so much like 
you to see them. He was saying so only this 
morning. ” 

David made a suitable response. His anger was 
gone. Mary was Mary. If she were unkind, 
she was still Mary. If she were trivial, foolish, 
cruel, what did it matter? Her voice made his 
blood leap, her eyes were like wine, her hand 
played on his pulses, and he asked nothing more 
than to feel that soft touch, and answer to it, with 
every high-strung nerve. He despised her a 
little, and himself a good deal, and when a man’s 
passion for a woman is mingled with contempt, it 
goes but ill with his soul. 

That evening saw him again in his old place. 
He came and went as of old, and, as of old, his 
fever burned, and burning, fretted away both 
health and self-respect. He slept less and less, 
and if sleep came at all, it was so thin, so haunted 
by ill dreams, that waking was a positive relief. 
At least when he waked he was still sane, but in 
those dreams there lurked an impending horror 


Edward Is Put Out 


127 


that might at any moment burst the gloom, and 
stare him mad. It was madness that he feared in 
the days which linked that endless procession of 
long, unendurable nights. It was about this time 
that he began to be haunted by a strange vision, 
which, like the impending terror, lay just beyond 
the bounds of consciousness. As on the one side 
madness lurked, so on the other there were hints, 
stray gleams, as it were, from some place of peace. 
And the strange thing about it was, that at these 
moments a conviction would seize him that this 
place was his by right. His the deep waters of 
comfort, and his the wide, unbroken fields of peace, 
his — but lost. 

Yet during all this time David went about 
his work, and if his patients thought him looking 
ill, they had no reason to complain either of in- 
efficiency or neglect. His work was in itself a 
stimulant to him, a stimulant which braced his 
nerves and cleared his brain during the time that 
he was under its influence, and then resulted, 
like all stimulants, in a reaction of fatigue and 
nervous strain. 

In the first days of March, Elizabeth Chantrey 
had a visit from old Dr. Bull. He sat and had tea 
with her in her little brown room, and talked about 


128 


The Fire Within 


the mild spring weather and the show of buds 
upon the apple tree in his small square of garden. 
He also told her that Mrs. Codrington had three 
broods of chickens out, a fact of which Elizabeth 
had already been informed by Mrs. Codrington 
herself. When Dr. Bull had finished dealing with 
the early chickens, he asked for another cup of 
tea, took a good pull at it, wiped his square beard 
with a very brilliant pocket-handkerchief in 
which the prevailing colours were sky-blue and 
orange, and remarked abruptly: 

“Why don’t you get David Blake to go away, 
hey? — hey?” 

Elizabeth frowned a little. This was getting 
to close quarters. 

“I?” she said, with a note of gentle surprise in 
her voice. 

Dr. Bull was quite ready for her. “You is 
the second person plural — or used to be when I 
went to school. You, and Mary, and Edward, 
you ’re his friends, are n’t you? — and two of you 
are women, so he ’ll have to be polite, hey? Can’t 
bite your heads off the way he bit off mine, when 
I suggested that a holiday ’ud do him good. And 
he wants a holiday, hey?” 

Elizabeth nodded. 


Edward Is Put Out 


129 


“He ought to go away,” she said. 

“He’ll break down if he doesn’t,” said Dr. 
Bull. He finished his cup of tea, and held it out. 
“Yes, another, please. You make him go, and 
he ’ll come back a new man. What ’s the good 
of being a woman if you can’t manage a man 
for his good?” 

Elizabeth thought the matter over for an hour, 
and then she spoke to Edward. 

“He won’t go,” said Edward, with a good deal 
of irritation. “I asked him some little time ago 
whether he was n’t going to take a holiday. Now 
what is there in that to put any one’s back up? 
And yet, I do assure you, he looked at me as if 
I had insulted him. Really, Elizabeth, I can’t 
make out what has happened to David. He 
never used to be like this. And he comes here too 
often, a great deal too often. I shall have to tell 
him so, and then there ’ll be a row, and I simply 
hate rows. But really, a man in his state, 
always under one’s feet — it gets on one’s 
nerves. ” 

“Edward is getting dreadfully put out,” said 
Mary the same evening. She had come down to 
Elizabeth’s room to borrow a book, and lingered 
for a moment or two, standing by the fire and 


130 


The Fire Within 


holding one foot to the blaze. It was a night of 
sudden frost after the mild spring day. 

“How cold it has turned,” said Mary. “Yes, 
I really don’t know what to do. If Edward goes 
on being tiresome and jealous” — she bridled a 
little as she spoke — “if he goes on — well, David 
will just have to stay away, and I ’m afraid he will 
feel it. I am afraid it may be bad for him. You 
know I have always hoped that I was being of 
some use to David — I have always wanted to 
have an influence — a good influence does make 
such a difference, does n’t it? I ’ve never flirted 
with David — I really have n’t — you know that, 
Liz?” 

“No,” said Elizabeth slowly. “You haven’t 
flirted with him, Molly, my dear, but I think you 
are in rather a difficult position for being a good 
influence. You see, David is in love with you, 
and I think it would be better for him if he did n’t 
see you quite so often.” 

Mary’s colour rose. 

“I can’t help his being — fond of me,” she said, 
with a slight air of offended virtue. “I am sure 
I don’t know what you mean by my not being 
good for him. If it were n’t for me he might be 
drinking himself to death at this very moment. 


Edward Is Put Out 


131 

You know how he was going on, and I am sure 
you can’t have forgotten how dreadful he was that 
night he came here. I let him see how shocked 
I was. I know you were angry with me, and I 
thought it very unreasonable of you, because I 
did it on purpose, and it stopped him. You may 
say what you like, Liz, but it stopped him. Mrs. 
Havergill told Markham — yes, I know you don’t 
think I ought to talk to Markham about David, 
but she began about it herself, and she is really 
interested, and thought I would like to know — 
well, she says David has never touched a drop 
since. Mrs. Havergill told her so. So you see, 
Liz, I have n’t always been as bad for David as 
you seem to think. I don’t know if you want 
him to go and marry Katie Ellerton, just out of 
pique. She ’s running after him worse than ever 
— I really do wonder she is n’t ashamed, and if 
David’s friends cast him off, well, she ’ll just snap 
him up, and then I should think you ’d be sorry. ” 
Elizabeth leaned her chin in her hand, and was 
silent for a moment. Then she said : “ Molly, dear, 
why should we try and prevent David from going 
to see Katie Ellerton? He is in love with you, 
and it is very bad for him. If he saw less of you 
for a time it would give him a chance of getting 


132 


The Fire Within 


over it. David is very unhappy just now. No 
one can fail to see that. He wants what you can’t 
give him — rest, companionship, a home. If Katie 
cares for him, and can give him these things, let 
her give them. We have no business to stand in 
the way. Don’t you see that?” 

Elizabeth spoke sweetly and persuasively. She 
kept her eyes on her sister’s face, and saw there, 
first, offence, and then interest — the birth of a 
new idea. 

“Oh, well — if you don’t mind,” said Mary. 
“You are nearly as tiresome as Edward and Ed- 
ward has been most dreadfully tiresome. I told 
him so. I said, ‘Edward, I really never knew you 
could be so tiresome,’ and it seemed to make him 
worse. I think, you know, that he is afraid that 
people will talk if David goes on coming here. Of 
course, that ’s absurd, I told him it was absurd. I 
said, ‘Why, how on earth is any one to know that 
it is n’t Elizabeth he comes to see ?’ And then, 
Edward became really violent. I did n’t know he 
could be, but he was. He simply plunged up 
and down the room, and said : ‘If he wants to see 
Elizabeth, then in Heaven’s name let him see 
Elizabeth. Let him marry Elizabeth.’ Oh, you 
must n’t mind, Liz, ” as Elizabeth’s head went up, 


Edward Is Put Out 


133 


“it was only because he was so cross, and you and 
David are such old friends. There ’s nothing for 
you to mind . ” 

She paused, stole a quick glance at Elizabeth, 
then looked away, and said in a tentative voice, 
“Liz, why don’t you marry David?” 

“Because he doesn’t want me to, Molly,” 
said Elizabeth. Her voice was very proud, and 
her head very high. 

Mary half put out her hand, and drew it back 
again. She knew this mood of Elizabeth’s, and 
it was one that silenced even her ready tongue. 
She was the little sister again for a moment, and 
Elizabeth the mother, sister, and ideal — all in one. 

“Liz, I’m sorry,” she said in quite a small, 
humble voice. 

When she had gone, Elizabeth sat on by the 
fire. She did not move for a long time. When 
she did move, it was to put up a hand to her face, 
which was wet with many hot, slow tears. Pride 
dies hard, and hurts to the very last. 


CHAPTER XI 


FORGOTTEN WAYS 

I have forgotten all the ways of sleep, 

The endless, windless silence of my dream, 

The milk-white poppy meadows and the stream, 

The dreaming water soft and still and deep — 

I have forgotten how that water flows, 

I have forgotten how the poppy grows, 

I have forgotten all the ways of sleep. 

TT was on an afternoon, a few days later, that 
* David came into the hall of the Mottisfonts* 
house. 

“Lord save us, he do look bad,” was the 
thought in Markham’s mind as she let him in. 
Aloud she said that she thought Mrs. Mottisfont 
was just going out. As she spoke, Mary came 
down the stairs, bringing with her a sweet scent 
of violets. 

Mary was very obviously going out. She wore 
a white cloth dress, with dark furs, and there was 
a large bunch of mauve and white violets at her 
breast. She looked a little vexed when she saw 
David. 


i34 


Forgotten Ways 


135 


“Oh, ” she said, “I am just going out. I am 
so sorry, but I am afraid I must. Bazaars are 
tiresome things, but one must go to them, and 
I promised Mrs. Codrington that I would be 
there early. Elizabeth is in. She ’ll give you 
some tea. Markham, will you please tell Miss 
Elizabeth?” 

David came forward as she was speaking. 
There was a window above the front door, and as 
he came out of the shadow, and the light fell 
on his face, he saw Mary start a little. Her 
expression changed, and she said in a hesitating 
manner : 

“Of course, Elizabeth may be busy, or she may 
be going out — I really don’t know. Perhaps you 
had better come another day, David.” 

He read her clearly enough. She thought that 
he had been drinking, and hesitated to leave him 
with her sister. He had been about to say that he 
could not stop, but her suspicion raised a devil of 
obstinacy in him, and as Elizabeth came out of her 
room by way of the dining-room, he advanced to 
meet her, saying : 

“Will you give me some tea, Elizabeth, or are 
you too busy?” 

“Liz, come here,” said Mary quickly. Her 


136 


The Fire Within 


colour had risen at David’s tone. She drew 
Elizabeth a little aside. “ Liz, you ’d better not, ” 
she whispered, “he looks so queer.” 

“Nonsense, Molly.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t ” 

“My dear Molly, are you going to begin to 
chaperone me?” 

Mary tossed her head. 

“Oh, if you don’t mind ,” she said angrily, and 
went out, leaving Elizabeth with an odd sense of 
anticipation. 

Elizabeth found David standing before the 
writing-table, and looking at himself in the little 
Dutch mirror which hung above it. He turned 
as she came in. 

“Well,” he said bitterly, “has Mary renounced 
the Bazaar in order to stay and protect you? 
I ’m not really as dangerous as she seems to think, 
though I am willing to admit that I am not exactly 
ornamental. Give me some tea, and I ’ll not 
inflict myself on you for long.” 

Elizabeth smiled. 

“You know very well that I like having you 
here,” she said in her friendly voice. “Look at 
my flowers. Are n’t they well forward? I really 
think that everything is a fortnight before its 


Forgotten Ways 


137 


time this year. No, not that chair, David. This 
one is much more comfortable.” 

Markham was coming in with the tea as Eliza- 
beth spoke. David sat silent. He watched the 
tiny flame of the spirit-lamp, the mingled flicker 
of firelight and daylight upon the silver, and the 
thin old china with its branching pattern of purple 
and yellow flowers. He drank as many cups of 
tea as Elizabeth gave him, and she talked a little 
in a desultory manner, until he had finished, and 
then sat in a silence that was not awkward, but 
companionable. 

David made no effort to move, or speak. This 
was a pleasant room of Elizabeth’s. The brown 
panels were warm in the firelight. They made a 
soft darkness that had nothing gloomy about it, 
and the room was full of flowers. The great brown 
crock full of daffodils stood on the window-ledge, 
and on the table which filled the angle between the 
window and the fireplace was another, in which 
stood a number of the tall yellow tulips which 
smell like Marechal-Niel roses. Elizabeth’s dress 
was brown, too. It was made of some soft stuff 
that made no sound when she moved. The room 
was very still, and very sweet, and the sweetness 
and the stillness were very grateful to David 


138 


The Fire Within 


Blake. The thought came to him suddenly, that 
it was many years since he had sat like this 
in Elizabeth’s room, and the silence had com- 
panioned them. Years ago he had been there 
often enough, and they had talked, read, argued, 
or been still, just as the spirit of the moment 
dictated. They had been good comrades, then, 
in the old days — the happy days of youth. 

He looked across at Elizabeth and said 
suddenly : 

“You are a very restful woman, Elizabeth.” 

She smiled at him without moving, and 
answered : 

“I am glad if I rest you, David — I think you 
need rest.” 

“You sit so still. No one else sits so still. ” 

Elizabeth laughed softly. 

“That sounds as if I were a very inert sort of 
person,” she said. 

David frowned a little. 

“No, it’s not that. It is strength — force — 
stability. Only strong things keep still like that. ” 

This was so like the old David, that it took 
Elizabeth back ten years at a leap. She was 
silent for a moment, gathering her courage. Then 
she said : 


Forgotten Ways 


139 


“ David, you do need rest, and a change. Why 
don’t you go away?” 

She had thought he would be angry, but he 
was not angry. Instead, he answered her as the 
David of ten years ago might have done, with 
a misquotation. 

“What is the good of a change? It ’s a case 
of — I myself am my own Heaven and Hell”; 
and his voice was the voice of a very weary 
man. 

Elizabeth’s eyes dwelt on him with a deep con- 
sidering look. 

“Yes, that’s true,” she said. “One has to 
find oneself. But it is easier to find oneself in 
clear country than in a fog. This place is not 
good for you, David. When I said you wanted 
a change, I did n’t mean just for a time — I 
meant altogether. Why don’t you go right 
away — leave it all behind you, and start 
again?” 

He looked at her as if he might be angry, if he 
were not too tired. 

“Because I won’t run away,” he said, with his 
voice back on the harsh note which had become 
habitual. 

There was a pause. Elizabeth heard her own 


140 


The Fire Within 


heart beat. The room was getting darker. A 
log fell in the fire. 

Then David laughed bitterly. 

“That sounded very fine, but it ’s just a flam. 
The truth is, not that I won’t run away, but that 
I can’t. I ’ve not got the energy. I ’m three 
parts broke, and it ’s all I can do to keep going at 
all. I could n’t start fresh, because I ’ve got no- 
thing to start with. If I could sleep for a week it 
would give me a chance, but I can’t sleep. Skef- 
fington has taken me in hand now, and out of 
three drugs he has given me, two made me feel 
as if I were going mad, and the third had no effect 
at all. I ’m full of bromide now. It makes me 
sleepy, but it does n’t make me sleep. You 
don’t know what it ’s like. My brain is drunk 
with sleep — marshy with it, water-logged — but 
there ’s always one point of consciousness left 
high and dry — tortured.” 

“Can’t you sleep at all?” 

“I suppose I do, or I should be mad in real 
earnest. Do I look mad, Elizabeth?” 

She looked at him. His face was very white, 
except for a flushed patch high up on either cheek. 
His eyes were bloodshot and strained, but there 
was no madness in them. 


Forgotten Ways 


141 

“Is that what you are afraid of?” 

“Yes, my God, yes,” said David Blake, speak- 
ing only just above his breath. 

“I don’t think you need be afraid. I don’t, 
really, David. You look very tired. You look 
as if you wanted sleep more than anything else in 
the world. ” 

She spoke very gently. “Will you let me send 
you to sleep? I think I can.” 

“Does one ask a man who is dying of thirst if 
one may give him a drink?” 

“Then I may?” 

“If you can — but — ” He broke off as Mark- 
ham came in to clear away the tea. Elizabeth 
began to talk of trivialities. For a minute or two 
Markham came and went, but when she had taken 
away the tray, and the door was shut, there was 
silence again. 

Elizabeth had turned her chair a little. She 
sat looking into the fire. She was not making 
pictures among the embers, as she sometimes 
did. Her eyes had a brooding look. Her honey- 
coloured hair looked like pale gold against the 
brown panelling behind her. She sat very still. 
David found it pleasant to watch her, pleasant to 
be here. 


142 


The Fire Within 


His whole head was stiff and numb with lack of 
sleep. Every muscle seemed stretched and every 
nerve taut. There was a dull, continuous pain at 
the back of his head. Thought seemed muffled, 
his faculties clogged. Two thirds of his brain 
was submerged, but in the remaining third con- 
sciousness flared like a flickering will-o’-the-wisp 
above a marsh. 

David lay back in his chair. This was a peace- 
ful place, a peaceful room. He had not meant to 
stay so long, but he had no desire to move. Slowly, 
slowly the tide of sleep mounted in him. Not, as 
often lately, with a sudden flooding wave which 
retreated again as suddenly, and left his brain 
reeling, but steadily, quietly, like the still rising 
of some peaceful, moon-drawn sea. He seemed 
to see that lifting tide. It was as deep and still as 
those still waters of which another David wrote. 
It rose and rose — the will-o’-the-wisp of conscious- 
ness ceased its tormented flickering, and he slept. 

Elizabeth never turned her head. She heard 
his breathing deepen, until it was very slow and 
steady. There was no other sound except when 
an ember dropped. The light failed. Soon there 
was no light but the glow of the fire. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE GREY WOLF 

I thought I saw the Grey Wolf’s eyes 
Look through the bars of night; 

They drank the silver of the moon, 

And the stars’ pale chrysolite. 

From star by star they took their toll, 

And through the drained and darkened night 
They sought my darkened soul. 

PNAVID slept for a couple of hours, and that 
night he slept more than he had done for 
weeks. Next night, however, there returned the 
old strain, the old yearning for oblivion, the old 
inability to compass it. In the week that followed 
David passed through a number of strange, mental 
phases. After that first sound sleep had relieved 
the tension of his brain, he told himself that he 
owed it to the delayed action of the bromide 
Skeffington had given him. But as the strain 
returned, though reason held him to this opinion 
still, out of the deep undercurrents of conscious- 
ness there rose before him a vision of Elizabeth, 


i43 


144 


The Fire Within 


with the gift of sleep in her hand. He passed into 
a state of conflict, and out of this conflict there 
grew up a pride that would owe nothing to a 
woman, a resistance that called itself reason and 
independence. And then, as the desire for sleep 
dominated everything, conflict merged into a de- 
sire that Elizabeth should heal him, should make 
him sleep. And all through the week he did not 
think of Mary at all. The craving for her had 
been swallowed up by that other craving. Mary 
had raised this fever, but it had now reached a 
point at which he had become unconscious of her. 
It was Elizabeth who filled his thoughts. Not 
Elizabeth the woman, but Elizabeth the bearer 
of that gift of sleep. But this, too, was a phase, 
and had its reaction. 

Towards the end of the week he finished his 
afternoon round by going to see an old Irish- 
woman, who had been in the hospital for an opera- 
tion, and had since been dismissed as incurable. 
She was a plucky old soul, and a cheerful, but to- 
day David found her in a downcast mood. 

“Sure, it ’s not the pain I ’d be minding if I 
could get my sleep,” she said. “Couldn’t ye 
be after putting the least taste of something in 
my medicine, then, Doctor, dear?” 


The Grey Wolf 


145 


David had his finger on her pulse. He patted 
her hand kindly as he laid it down. 

“Come, now, Mrs. Halloran, ” he said, “when 
I gave you that last bottle of medicine you said 
it made you sleep beautifully.” 

“Just for a bit it did,” said Judy Halloran. 
“ Sure, it was only for a bit, and now it ’s the 
devil’s own nights I ’m having. Could n’t you be 
making it the least taste stronger, then?” 

She looked at David rather piteously. 

“Well, we must see,” he said. “You finish 
that bottle, and then I ’ll see what I can do for 
you.” 

Mrs. Halloran closed her eyes for a minute. 
Then she opened them rather suddenly, shot a 
quick look at David, and said with an eager note 
in her voice: 

“They do be saying that Miss Chan trey can 
make anny one sleep. There was a friend of mine 
was after telling me about it. It was her daughter 
that had the sleep gone from her, and after Miss 
Chantrey came to see her, it was the fine nights 
she was having, and it ’s the strong woman she 
is now, entirely.” 

David got up rather abruptly. 

“Come, now, Mrs. Halloran,” he said, “you 


10 


146 


The Fire Within 


know as well as I do that that ’s all nonsense. But 
I daresay a visit from Miss Chantrey would cheer 
you up quite a lot. Would you like to see her? 
Shall I ask her to come in one day?” 

“She ’d be kindly welcome,’' said Judy Halloran. 

David went home with the old conflict raging 
again. Skeffington had been urging him to see a 
specialist. He had always refused. But now, 
quite suddenly, he wired for an appointment. 

He came down from town on a dark, rainy after- 
noon, feeling that he had built up a barrier be- 
tween himself and superstition. 

An hour later he was at the Mottisfonts’ door, 
asking Markham if Mary was at home. Mary 
had gone out to tea, said Markham, and then 
volunteered, “Miss Elizabeth is in, sir.” 

David told himself that he had not intended 
to ask for Elizabeth. Why should he ask for 
Elizabeth? He could, however, hardly explain to 
Markham that it was not Elizabeth he wished to 
see, so he came in, and was somehow very glad 
to come. 

Elizabeth had been reading aloud to herself. 
As he stood at the door he could hear the rise and 
fall of her voice. It was an old trick of hers. 
Ten years ago he had often stood on the thresh- 


The Grey Wolf 147 

old and listened, until rebuked by Elizabeth for 
eavesdropping. 

He came in, and she said just in the old voice : 

“You were listening, David.” 

But it was the David of to-day who responded 
wearily, “I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. Did 
you mind?” 

“No, of course not. Sit down, David. What 
have you been doing with yourself?” 

Instead of sitting down he walked to the win- 
dow and looked out. The sky was one even grey, 
and, though the rain had ceased, heavy drops 
were falling from the roof and denting the earth 
in Elizabeth’s window boxes, which were full of 
daffodils in bud. After a moment he turned 
and said impatiently, “How dark this room is!” 

Elizabeth divined in him a reaction, a fear of 
what she had done, and might do. She knew 
very well why he had stayed away. Without 
replying she put out her hand and touched a 
switch on the wall. A tall lamp with a yellow 
shade sprang into view, and the whole room be- 
came filled with a soft, warm light. 

David left the window, but still he did not sit. 
For a while he walked up and down restlessly, 
but at length came to a standstill between Eliza- 


148 


The Fire Within 


beth and the fire. He was so close to her that she 
had only to put out her hand and it would have 
touched his. He stood looking, now at the minia- 
tures on the wall, now at the fire which burned 
with a steady red glow. He was half turned 
from Elizabeth, but she could see his face. It 
was strained and thin. The flesh had fallen 
away, leaving the great bones prominent. 

It was Elizabeth who broke the silence, and 
she said what she had not meant to say. 

“David, are you better? Are you sleeping ?” 

“No,” he said shortly. 

“And you won’t let me help?” 

“I didn’t say so.” 

“Did you think I didn’t know?” Elizabeth’s 
voice was very sad. 

They had fallen suddenly upon an intimate note. 
It was a note that he had never touched with 
Mary. That they should be talking like this 
filled him with a dazed surprise. He as well as 
she was taking it for granted that she had given 
him sleep, and could give him sleep again. 

He gave himself a sudden shake. 

“I’m going away,” he said in a harder 
voice. 

There was a pause. 


The Grey Wolf 


149 


“I’m glad,” said Elizabeth, and then there 
was silence again. 

This time it was David who spoke, and he 
spoke in the hot, insistent tones of a man who 
argues a losing case. 

“One can’t go on not sleeping. That is what 
I said to old Wyatt Byng to-day.” 

“Sir Wyatt Byng?” said Elizabeth quickly. 

“Yes — I saw him. Skefiington would have me 
see him, but what ’s the use? He swears I shall 
sleep, if I take the stuff he ’s given me — the latest 
French fad — but I don’t sleep. I seem to have 
lost the way — and one can’t go on.” 

He paused, and then said frowning : 

“It ’s so odd ” 

“Odd?” 

“Yes — so odd — sleep. Such an odd thing. It 
was so easy once. Now it ’s so difficult that it 
can’t be done. Why? No one knows. No 
one knows what sleep is ” 

His voice trailed away. He was strung like a 
wire that is ready to snap, and on the borders of 
consciousness, just out of sight, something waited ; 
he turned his head sharply, as if the thing he 
dreaded might be there — behind him — in the 
shadow. 


150 


The Fire Within 


Instead, he saw Elizabeth in a golden light like 
a halo. It swam before his tired eyes, a glow with 
a rainbow edge. Out of the heart of it she looked 
at him with serious, tender eyes. 

Beyond, in the gloom, there lurked such a 
horror as made him catch his breath, and here at 
his side — in this room, peace, safety, and sleep — 
sleep, the one thing in heaven or earth desired 
and desirable. 

A sort of shudder passed over him, and he 
repeated his own last words in a low, altered voice. 

“One can't go on. Something must give way. 
Sometimes I feel as if it might give now — at any 
moment. Then there ’s madness — when one can’t 
sleep. Am I going mad, Elizabeth?” 

Elizabeth caught his hand and held it. He was 
so near that the impulse carried her away. Her 
clasp was strong, warm, and vital. 

“No, my dear, no,” she said. 

Then with a catch in her voice: 

“Oh, David — let me help you.” 

He shook his head in a slow, considering 
manner. 

“ No — there would be only one way — and that ’s 
not fair. ” 

“What is n’t fair, David?” 


The Grey Wolf 


151 

“You — to marry — me,” he said, still in that 
slow, considering way. “You know, Elizabeth, 
I can’t think very well. My head is all to pieces. 
But it ’s not fair, and I can’t take your help — ’’ 
He broke off frowning. 

“David, it has nothing to do with that sort of 
thing,” said Elizabeth very seriously. “It’s 
only what I would do for any one. ” 

She was shaken to the depths, but she kept her 
voice low and steady. 

“Yes — it has — one can’t take like that ” 

“Because I ’m a woman? Just because I ’m 
a woman?” 

Elizabeth looked up quickly and spoke quickly, 
because she knew that if she stopped to think she 
would not speak at all. 

“And if we were married?” 

“Then it would be different, ” said David Blake. 

His voice was not like his usual voice. It 
sounded like the voice of a man who was puzzled, 
who was trying to recall something of which he 
has seen glimpses. Was it something from the 
past, or something from the future? 

Elizabeth got up and stood as he was standing — 
one hand on the oak shelf above the fireplace 
the other clenched at her side. 


152 


The Fire Within 


“David, are you asking me to marry you?” 
she said. 

He raised his head, half startled. The silence 
that followed her question seemed to fill the room 
and shake it. His will shook too, drawn this way 
and that by forces that were above and beyond 
them both. 

Elizabeth did not look at him. She did not 
know what he would answer, and all their lives 
hung on that answer of his. She held her breath, 
and it seemed to her that she was holding her 
will too. She was suddenly, overpoweringly con- 
scious of her own strength, her own vital force 
and power. If she let this force go out to David 
now — in his weakness ! It was the greatest temp- 
tation that she had ever known, and, after one 
shuddering moment, she turned from it in horror. 
She kept her will, her strength, her vital powers in 
a strong grip. No influence of hers must touch or 
sway him now. Her heart stopped beating. Her 
very life seemed to be suspended. Then she heard 
David say : 

“Would you marry me, Elizabeth?” His tone 
was a wondering one. It broke the tension. She 
turned her head a little and said: 

“Yes — if you needed me.” 


The Grey Wolf 


153 


“Need — need — I think I should sleep — and if 
I don’t sleep I shall go mad. But, perhaps I shall 
go mad anyhow. You must not marry me if I 
am going mad. ” 

“You won’t go mad.” 

“You think not? There is something that 
shakes all the time. It never stops. It goes on 
always. I think that is why I don’t sleep. But 
when I am with you it seems to stop. I don’t 
know why, but it does seem to stop, just whilst I 
am with you.” 

“It will stop altogether when you get your 
sleep back.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

The half-dreamy note went out of his voice, 
and the note of intimate self-revealing. Elizabeth 
noticed the change at once. 

“When do you go away, and where do you go?” 
she asked. 

“Switzerland, I think. I could get away by 
the 3rd of April. ” 

David was trying to think, but his head was 
very tired. He must go away. He must have a 
change. They all said that. But it was no use 
for him to go away if he did not sleep. He must 
have sleep. But if Elizabeth were with him he 


154 


The Fire Within 


would sleep. Elizabeth must come with him. If 
they were married at once she could come with 
him, and then he would sleep. But it was so soon. 
He spoke his thought aloud. 

“You would n’t marry me first, I suppose? 
You would n’t come with me?” 

“Why not?” said Elizabeth quietly. The 
quietness hid the greatest effort of her life. “If 
you want me, I will come. I only want to help 
you, and if I can help you best that way ” 

David let himself sink into a chair, and began to 
talk a little of plans, wearily and with an effort. 
He had to force his brain to make it work at all. 
All these details, these plans, these conventions 
seemed to him irrelevant and burdensome. 

He got up to go as the clock struck seven. 

Elizabeth put out her hand to him as she had 
always done. 

“And you will let me help you?” 

“No, not yet — not till afterwards,” he 
said. 

“It makes no difference, David, you know. 
It is just what I would do for any one who wanted 
it ” 

He shook his head. There was a reaction upon 
him, a withdrawal. 


155 


The Grey Wolf 

7 

“Not yet — not till afterwards. I ’ll give 
old Byng’s stuff a chance,” he said obstinately, 
and then went out with just a bare good- 
night. 


CHAPTER XIII 


MARCH GOES OUT 


I thought I saw the Grey Wolf’s eyes. 

The sun was gone away, 

Most unendurably gone down, 

With all delights of day. 

I cried aloud for light, and all 
The light was dead and done away, 
And no one answered to my call. 


C DWARD was, perhaps, the person best pleased 
at the news of Elizabeth’s engagement. He 
had been, as Mary phrased it, “very much put 
out.” Put out, in fact, to the point of wondering 
whether he could possibly nerve himself to tell 
David that he came too often to the house. He 
had an affection for David, and he was under an 
obligation to him, but there were limits — during 
the last fortnight he had very frequently explained 
to Mary that there were limits. Whether he 
would ever have got as far as explaining this to 
David remains amongst the lesser mysteries of 
life. Mary did not take the explanation in what 
156 


March Goes Out 


157 


Edward considered at all a proper spirit. She 
bridled, looked very pretty, talked about good 
influences, and was much offended when Edward 
lost his temper. He lost it to the extent of con- 
signing good influences to a place with which they 
are not usually connected, though the way to it is 
said to be paved with good intentions. Mary had 
a temper, too. It took her out of the room with a 
bang of the door, but she subsequently cried her- 
self sick because Edward had sworn at her. 

There was a reconciliation, but Edward was not 
as penitent as Mary thought he should have been. 
David became a sore point with both of them, and 
Edward, at least, was unfeignedly pleased at what 
he considered a happy solution of the difficulty. 
He was fond of Elizabeth, but it would certainly 
be more agreeable to have the whole house at his 
own disposal. He had always thought that Eliza- 
beth’s little brown room would be the very place 
for his collections. He fell to estimating the 
probable cost of lining the whole wall-space with 
cabinets. 

Mary was not quite as pleased as Edward. 

“You know, Liz,” she said, “I am very glad 
that David should marry. I think he wants a 
home. But I don’t think you ought to marry him 


158 


The Fire Within 


until he ’s better . He looks dreadful. And a 
fortnight’s engagement — I can’t think what people 
will say — one ought to consider that.” 

“Oh, Molly, you are too young for the part of 
Mrs. Grundy,” said Elizabeth, laughing. 

Mary coloured and said: 

“It ’s all very well, Liz, but people will talk.” 

“Well, Molly, and if they do? What is there 
for them to say? It is all very simple, really. 
No one can help seeing how ill David is, and I think 
every one would understand my wanting to be 
with him. People are really quite human and 
understanding if they are taken the right way.” 

“ But a fortnight, ” said Mary, frowning. “Why 
Liz, you will not be able to get your things!” 
And she was shocked beyond words when Eliza- 
beth betrayed a complete indifference as to 
whether she had any new things at all. 

The wedding was fixed for the 3rd of April, and 
the days passed. David made the necessary 
arrangements with a growing sense of detachment. 
The matter was out of his hands. 

For a week the new drug gave him sleep, a sleep 
full of brilliant dreams, strange flashes of light, 
and bursts of unbearable colour. He woke from 
it with a blinding headache and a sense of strain 


March Goes Out 


159 


beyond that induced by insomnia. Towards the 
end of the week he stopped taking the drug. The 
headache had become unendurable. This state 
was worse than the last. 

On the last day of March he came to Elizabeth 
and told her that their marriage must be 
deferred. 

“Ronnie Ellerton is very ill,” he said; “I can’t 
go away. ” 

“But David, you must ” 

He shook his head. The obstinacy of illness 
was upon him. 

“I can’t — and I won’t,” he declared. Then, 
as if realising that he owed her some explanation, 
he added : 

“He ’s so spoilt. Why are women such fools? 
He ’s never been made to do anything he did n’t 
like. He won’t take food or medicine, and I ’m 
the only person who has the least authority over 
him. And she ’s half crazy with anxiety, poor 
soul. I have promised not to go until he ’s round 
the corner. It ’s only a matter of a day or two, 
so we must just put it off. ” 

Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. 

“David, we need not put off the marriage,” 
she said in her most ordinary tones. “You see, 


i6o 


The Fire Within 


if we are married, we could start off as soon as 
the child was better.” 

She had it in her mind that unless David would 
let her help him soon, he would be past helping. 

He looked at her indifferently. “You will stay 
here?” 

“Not unless you wish,” she answered. 

“I? Oh! it is for you to say.” 

There was no interest in his tone. If he thought 
of anything it was of Ronnie Ellerton. A com- 
plete apathy had descended upon him. Nothing 
was real, nothing mattered. Health — sanity — 
rest — these were only names. They meant no- 
thing. Only when he turned to his work, his 
brain still moved with the precision of a machine, 
regularly, correctly. 

He did not tell her either then or ever, that 
Katie Ellerton had broken down and spoken 
bitter words about his marriage. 

“I ’ve nothing but Ronnie — nothing but Ronnie 
— and you will go away with her and he will die. 
I know he will die if you go. Can’t she spare 
you just for two days — or three — to save Ronnie’s 
life? Promise me you won’t go till he is safe — 
promise — promise. ” 

And David had promised, taking in what she 


March Goes Out 


161 


had said about the child, but only half grasping 
the import of her frantic appeal. Neither he nor 
she were real people to him just now. Only 
Ronnie was real — Ronnie, who was ill, and his 
patient. 

Elizabeth went through the next two days with 
a heavy heart. She had to meet Mary’s ques- 
tions, her objections, her disapprobations, and it 
was all just a little more than she could bear. 

On the night before the wedding, Mary left 
Edward upstairs and came to sit beside Elizabeth’s 
fire. Elizabeth would rather have been alone, and 
yet she was pleased that Mary cared to come. If 
only she would let all vexed questions be — it 
seemed as if she would, for her mood was a silent 
one. She sat for a long time without speaking, 
then, with an impulsive movement, she slid out of 
her chair and knelt at Elizabeth’s side. 

“Oh, Liz, I ’ve been cross. I know I have. I 
know you ’ve thought me cross. But it ’s because 
I ’ve been unhappy — Liz, I ’m not happy about 
you ” 

Elizabeth put her hand on Mary’s shoulder for 
a moment. 

“ Don’t be unhappy, Molly, ” she said, in rather 
an unsteady voice. 


ii 


The Fire Within 


162 

“But I am, Liz, I am — I can’t help it — I have 
talked, and worried you, and have been cross, 
but all the time I ’ve been most dreadfully 
unhappy. Oh, Liz, don’t do it — don’t!” 

“Molly, dear ” 

“No, I know it ’s no use — you won’t listen — ” 
and Mary drew away and dabbed her eyes with a 
fragmentary apology for a pocket-handkerchief. 

“Molly, please ” 

Mary nodded. 

“Yes, Liz, I know. I won’t — I didn’t mean 


There was a little silence. Then with a sudden 
choking sob, Mary turned and said : 

“ I can’t bear it. Oh, Liz, you ought to be loved 
so much. You ought to marry some one who loves 

you — really . And I don’t think David does. 

Liz, does he love you — does he?” 

The sound of her own words frightened her a 
little, but Elizabeth answered very gently and sadly : 

“No, Molly, but he needs me.” 

Mary was silenced. Here was something be- 
yond her. She put her arms round Elizabeth 
and held her very tightly for a moment. Then 
she released her with a sob, and ran crying from 
the room. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE GOLDEN WIND 

Then far, oh, very far away, 

The Wind began to rise, 

The Sun, the Moon, the Stars were gone, 

I saw the Grey Wolf’s eyes. 

The Wind rose up and rising, shone, 

I saw it shine, I saw it rise, 

And suddenly the dark was gone. 

r^AVID BLAKE was married to Elizabeth 
^ Chantrey at half-past two of an April day. 
Edward and Mary Mottisfont were the only 
witnesses, with the exception of the verger, who 
considered himself a most important person on 
these occasions, when he invariably appeared to 
be more priestly than the rector and more indis- 
pensable than the bridegroom. 

It requires no practice to be a bridegroom but 
years, if not generations, go to the making of the 
perfect verger. This verger was the son and the 
grandson of vergers. He was the perfect verger. 
He stood during the service and disapproved of 
163 


The Fire Within 


164 

David’s grey pallor, his shaking hand, and his 
unsteady voice. His black gown imparted a 
funerary air to the proceedings. 

“ Drinking, that ’s what he ’d been, ” he told his 
wife, and his wife said, “Oh, William,” as one who 
makes response to an officiating priest. 

But he wronged David, who was not drunk 
— only starved for lack of sleep, and strung 
to the breaking point. His voice stumbled over 
the words in which he took Elizabeth to be his 
wedded wife and trailed away to a whisper at the 
conclusion. 

A gusty wind beat against the long grey win- 
dows, and between the gusts the heavy rain 
thudded on the roof above. 

Mary shivered in the vestry as she kissed 
Elizabeth and wished her joy. Then she turned 
to David and kissed him too. He was her brother 
now, and there would be no more nonsense. Ed- 
ward frowned, David stiffened, and Elizabeth, 
standing near him, was aware that all his muscles 
had become rigid. 

Elizabeth and David went out by the vestry 
door, and stood a moment on the step. The rain 
had ceased quite suddenly in the April fashion. 
The sky was very black overhead and the air was 


The Golden Wind 


165 

full of a wet wind, but far down to the right the 
water meadows lay bathed in a clear sweet sun- 
shine, and the west was as blue as a turquoise. 
Between the blue of the sky and the bright emer- 
ald of the grass, the horizon showed faintly golden, 
and a broken patch of rainbow light glowed against 
the nearest dark cloud. 

David and Elizabeth walked to their home in 
silence. Mrs. Havergill awaited them with an 
air of mournful importance. She had prepared 
coffee and a cake with much almond icing and 
the word “Welcome” inscribed upon it in silver 
comfits. Elizabeth ate a piece of cake from a sense 
of duty, and David drank cup after cup of black 
coffee, and then sat in a sort of stupor of fatigue 
until roused by the sound of the telephone bell. 

After a minute or two he came back into the 
room. 

“ Ronnie is worse, ” he said shortly. There was 
a change in him. He had pulled himself together. 
His voice was stronger. 

“He's worse. I must go at once. Don’t 
wait dinner, and don’t sit up. I may have to 
stay all night.” 

When he had gone, Elizabeth went upstairs to 
unpack. Mrs. Havergill followed her. 


1.66 


The Fire Within 


“You 'av n ’t been in this room since Mrs. 
Blake was took.” 

“ It ’s a very nice room, ” said Elizabeth. 

“All this furniture,” said Mrs. Havergill, “come 
out of the ’ouse in the ’Igh Street. That old 
mahogany press, Mrs. Blake set a lot of store by, 
and the bed, too. Ah! pore thing, I suppose she 
little thought as 'ow she ’d come to die in it. ” 

The bed was a fine old four-poster, with a 
carved foot-rail. Elizabeth went past it to the 
windows, of which there were three, set casement 
fashion, at the end of the room, with a wide low 
window-seat running beneath them. 

She got rid of Mrs. Havergill without hurting her 
feelings. Then she knelt on the seat, and looked 
out. She saw the river beneath her, and a line of 
trees in the first green mist of their new leaves. 
The river was dark and bright in patches, and the 
wind sang above it. Elizabeth’s heart was glad 
of this place. It was a thing she loved — to see 
green trees and bright water, and to hear the wind 
go by above the stream. 

When she had unpacked and put everything 
away, she stood for a moment, and then opened 
the door that led through into David’s room. It 
was getting dark in here, for the room faced the 


The Golden Wind 


167 


east. Elizabeth went to the window and looked 
out. The sky was full of clouds, and the promise 
of rain. 

It was very late before David came home. At 
ten, Elizabeth sent the servants to bed. There 
was cold supper laid in the dining-room, and 
soup in a covered pan by the side of the fire. 
Elizabeth sat by the lamp and sewed. Every now 
and then she lifted her head and listened. Then 
she sewed again. 

At twelve o’clock David put his key into the 
latch, and the door opened with a little click and 
then shut again. 

David was a long time coming in. He came in 
slowly, and sat down upon the first chair he 
touched. 

“He ’ll do,” he said in an exhausted voice. 

“I’m so glad,” said Elizabeth. 

She knelt by the fire, and poured some of the 
soup into a cup. Then she held it out to him, and 
he drank, taking long draughts. After that she 
put food before him, and he ate in a dazed, 
mechanical fashion. 

When he had finished, he sat staring at Eliza- 
beth, with his elbows on the table, and his head 
between his hands. 


i68 


The Fire Within 


“Ronnie is asleep — he ’ll do.” And then with 
sudden passion: “My God, if I could sleep!” 

“You will, David,” said Elizabeth. She put 
her hand on his arm, and he turned his head a 
little, still staring at her. 

“No, I don’t sleep,” he said. “Everything 
else sleeps — Die Voglein ruhen im Walde. How 
does it go?” 

“Warte nur , balde ruhest du auch said Eliza- 
beth in her tranquil voice. 

“No,” said David, “I can’t get in. It was so 
easy once — but now I can’t get in. The silent 
city of sleep has long, smooth walls — I can’t find 
the gate; I grope along the wall all night, hour 
after hour. A hundred times I think I have found 
the door. Sometimes there is a flashing sword 
that bars the way, sometimes the wall closes — 
closes as I pass the threshold. There ’s no way in. 
The walls are smooth — all smooth — you can’t get 
in.” 

He spoke, not wildly, but in a low, muttering 
way. Elizabeth touched his hand. It was very 
hot. 

“ Come," David, ” she said, “it is late.” She 
drew him to his feet, and he walked uncertainly, 
and leaned on her shoulder, as they went up the 


The Golden Wind 


169 


stair. Once in his room, he sank again upon a 
chair. He let her help him, but when she knelt, 
and would have unlaced his boots, he roused 
himself. 

“No, you are not to, ” he said with a sudden 
anger in his voice, and he took them off, and then 
let her help him again. 

When he was in bed, Elizabeth stood by him for 
a moment. 

“Are you comfort able ?” she asked. 

“If I could sleep,” he said, only just above 
his breath. “If I could.” 

“Oh, but you will,” said Elizabeth. “Don’t 
be afraid, David. It ’s all right. ” 

She set the door into her room ajar and then 
sat down by the window, and looked out at the 
night. The blind was up. The night was dark 
and clear. There were stars, many little glittering 
points. It was very still. Elizabeth fixed her 
eyes upon the sky, but after a minute or two she 
did not see it at all. Her mind was full of David 
and his need. This tortured, sleepless state of his 
had no reality. How could it compass and oppress 
the immortal image of God? Her thought rose 
into peace. Elizabeth opened her mind to the 
Divine light. Her will rested. She was conscious 


170 


The Fire Within 


only of that radiant peace. It enwrapped her, 
it enwrapped David. In it they lived and moved 
and had their being. In it they were real and 
vital creatures. To lapse from consciousness of it, 
was to fall upon a formless, baseless dream, where- 
in were the shadows of evil. These shadows had 
no reality. Brought to the light, they faded, 
leaving only that peace — that radiance. Eliza- 
beth’s eyes were opened. She saw the Wings of 
Peace. 

And David slept. 


CHAPTER XV 


LOVE MUST TO SCHOOL 

Love must to school to learn his alphabet, 

His wings are shorn, his eyes are dim and wet. 

He pores on books that once he knew by heart — 

Poor, foolish Love, to wander and forget. 

F^LIZABETH sat quite motionless for half an 
^ hour. Then she stirred, bent her head for a 
moment, whilst she listened to David’s regular 
breathing, and then rose to her feet. She passed 
through the open door into her own room, and 
undressed in the dark. Then she lay down and 
slept. 

Three times during the night she woke and 
listened. But David still slept. When she woke 
up for the third time, the room was full of the 
greyness of the dawn. She got up and closed the 
door between the two rooms. 

Then she lay waking. It had been a strange 
wedding night. 

The day dawned cloudy, but broke at noon into 


172 


The Fire Within 


a cloudless warmth that was more like June than 
April. 

“Take me down the river,” said Elizabeth, 
and they rowed down for half a mile, and turned 
the boat into a water-lane where budding willows 
swept down on either side, and brushed the stream. 

David was very well content to lie in the sun. 
The strain was gone from him, leaving behind it a 
weariness beyond words. Every limb, every mus- 
cle, every nerve was relaxed. There was a great 
peace upon him. The air tasted sweet. The 
light was a pleasant thing. The sky was blue, and 
so was Elizabeth’s dress, and Elizabeth was a very 
reposeful person. She did not fidget and she did 
not chatter. When she spoke it was of pleasant 
things. 

David recalled a day, ten years ago, when he 
had sat with her in this very place. He could see 
himself, full of enthusiasm, full of youth. He 
could remember how he had talked, and how 
Elizabeth had listened. She was just the same 
now. It was he who had changed. Ten years 
ago seemed to him a very pleasant time, a very 
pleasant memory. Pictures rose before him — 
stray words — stray recollections running into a 
long, soft blur. 


Love Must to School 


173 


They came home in the dusk. 

“Are you going to see Ronnie again ?” said 
Elizabeth, as they landed. 

“Yes; he couldn’t be doing better, but I’ll 
look in, and to-morrow Skeffington will go with 
me so as to get him broken in to the change. 
We ought to get away all right now.” 

David waked next day to find the sun shining in 
at his uncurtained window. From where he lay 
he could see the young blue of the sky, and all 
the room seemed full of the sun’s gold. David 
lay in a lazy contentment watching the motes that 
danced in a long shining beam. There was a new 
stir of life in his veins. He stretched out his 
limbs and was glad of their strength. The sweet- 
ness and the glory and the promise of the spring 
slid into his blood and fired it. 

“Mary,” he said, still between sleeping and 
waking — and with the name, memory woke. 
Suddenly his brain was very clear. He looked 
straight ahead and saw the door that led into the 
other room — the room that had been his mother’s. 
Elizabeth was in that room. He had married 
Elizabeth — she was his wife. He lay quite still 
and stared at the door. Elizabeth Chantrey was 
Elizabeth Blake. She was his wife — and Mary 


174 


The Fire Within 


A sudden spasm of laughter caught David by 
the throat. Mary was what she had promised 
to be — his sister; Mary was his sister. The 
spasm of laughter passed, and with it the stir in 
David's blood. He was quite cool now. He 
lay staring at that closed door, and faced the 
situation. 

It was a damnable situation, he decided. He 
felt as a man might feel who wakes from the 
delirium of weeks, to find that in his madness he 
has done some intolerable, some irrevocable thing. 
A man who does not sleep is a man who is not 
wholly sane. David looked back and followed 
the events of the last few months with a critical 
detachment. 

He saw the strain growing and growing until, 
in the end, on the brink of the abyss, he had 
snatched at the relief which Elizabeth offered, as 
a man who dies of thirst will snatch at water. Well 
— he had taken Elizabeth's draught of water, his 
thirst was quenched, he was his own man again. 
No, never his own man any more. Never free 
any more — Elizabeth’s debtor — Elizabeth’s hus- 
band. 

David set his face like a flint — he would pay 
his debt. 


Love Must to School 


175 


He went out as soon as he had breakfasted and 
walked for a couple of hours. It was a little 
after noon when he came into the drawing-room 
where Elizabeth was. 

The floor was covered with a great many yards 
of green stuff which she was cutting into curtain 
lengths. As David came in, she looked up and 
smiled. 

“Oh, please ,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind, 
I shall cut them so much better if you hold one 
end.” 

David knelt down and held the stuff, whilst 
Elizabeth cut it. She came quite close to him at 
the end, smiled again, and took away the two 
pieces which he still clutched helplessly. 

“That ’s beautiful,” she said, and sat down and 
began to sew. 

David watched her in silence. If she found his 
gaze embarrassing, she showed no sign. 

“We can start to-morrow,” he said at last. 
He gave a list of trains, stopping-places, and 
hotels, paused at the end of it, walked to the 
window, and then, turning, said with an effort : 

“This has been a bad beginning for you, my 
dear — you ’ve been very good to me. You de- 
serve a better bargain, but I ’ll do my best. ” 


176 


The Fire Within 


Elizabeth did not speak at once. David 
thought that she was not going to speak at all, 
but after what seemed like a long time she said : 

“ David!” and then stopped. 

There was a good deal of colour in her cheeks. 
David saw that she, too, was making an effort. 

“Well, ” he said, and his voice was more natural. 

“David, ” said Elizabeth, “what did you mean 
by ‘doing your best’?” 

David met her eyes. He had always liked 
Elizabeth’s eyes. They were so very clear. 

“I meant that I ’d do my best to make you a 
good husband,” he said quite simply. 

Elizabeth’s colour rose higher still. She con- 
tinued to look at David, because she would have 
considered it cowardly to look away. 

“A good husband to my good wife,” she said. 
“But, David, I don’t think you want a wife just 
now. ” 

David came across the room and sat down by 
the table at which Elizabeth was working. 

“Then why did you marry me, Elizabeth?” 
he asked. 

Elizabeth did not turn her head at once. 

“I think what we both want just now,” she 
said, “is friendship.” Her voice was low, but she 


Love Must to School 


177 


kept it steady. 4 ‘The sort of friendship that is 
one side of marriage. It is not really possible for 
a man and a woman to be friends in that sort of 
way unless they are married. I think you want 
a friend — I know I do. I think you have been 
very lonely — one is lonely, and it is worse for a 
man. He can’t get the home-feeling, and he 
misses it. You did not marry me because you 
needed a wife. I don’t think you do. When you 
want a wife, I will be your wife, but just now ” 

She broke off. She did not look at David, but 
David looked at her. He saw how tightly her 
hands were clasped, he saw the colour flushing in 
her cheeks. She had great self-control, but that 
she was deeply moved was very evident. 

All at once he became conscious of great fatigue. 
He had walked far and in considerable distress of 
mind. He had put a very strong constraint upon 
himself. He rested his head on his hand and 
tried to think. Elizabeth did not speak again. 
After a time he raised his head. Elizabeth was 
watching him — her eyes were very soft. A sense 
of relief came upon David. Just to drift — just to 
let things go on in the old way, on the old lines. 
Not for always — just for a time — until he had 
put Mary out of his thoughts. Their marriage 


12 


i 7 8 


The Fire Within 


was not an ordinary one. It was for Elizabeth 
to make what terms she would. And it was a 
relief — yes, no doubt it was a relief. 

“If I say, Yes,” he said, “it is only for a time. 
It is not a very possible situation, you know, 
Elizabeth — not possible at all in most cases. 
But just now, just for the present, I admit your 
right to choose.” 

Elizabeth’s hands relaxed. 

“Thank you, David,” she said. 


CHAPTER XVI 


FRIENDSHIP 


See, God is everywhere, 

Where, then, is care? 

There is no night in Him, 

Then how can we grow dim? 

There is no room for pain or fear 
Since God is Love, and Love is here. 

The full cup lowered down into the sea, 

Is full continually, 

How can it lose one drop when all around 
The endless floods abound? 

So we in Him no part of Life can lose, 

For all is ours to use. 



AVID found himself enjoying his holiday a 


^ good deal. Blue skies and shining air, 
clear cold of the snows and radiant warmth of the 
spring sun, sweet sleep by night and pleasant 
companionship by day — all these were his portion. 
His own content surprised him. He had been so 
long in the dark places that he could scarcely 
believe that the shadow was gone, and the day 
clear again. He had been prepared to struggle 


179 


i8o 


The Fire Within 


manfully against the feeling for Mary which had 
haunted and tormented him for so long. To his 
surprise, he found that this feeling fell into line 
with the other symptoms of his illness. He shrank 
from thinking of it, as he shrank from thinking of 
his craving for drink, his sleepless nights, and his 
dread of madness. It was all a part of the same 
bad dream — a shadow among shadows, in a world 
of gloom from which he had escaped. 

Elizabeth was a very good companion. It was 
too early to climb, but they took long walks, 
shared picnic meals, and talked or were silent just 
as the spirit moved them. It was the old boy and 
girl companionship come back, and it was a very 
restful thing. One day, when they had been 
married about a fortnight, David said suddenly : 

“How did you do it, Elizabeth?” 

They were sitting on a grassy slope, looking 
over a wide valley where blue mists lay. A little 
wind was blowing, and the upper air was clear. 
The grass on which they sat was short. It was 
full of innumerable small white and purple 
anemones. Elizabeth was sitting on the grass, 
watching the flowers, and touching first one and 
then another with the tips of her fingers. 

“All these little white ones have a violet stain 


Friendship 


181 


at the back of each petal,” was the last thing 
that she had said, but when David spoke she 
looked up, a little startled. 

He was lying full length on a narrow ledge just 
above her, with his cap over his eyes to shield 
them from the sun, which was very bright. 

“How did you do it, Elizabeth?” said David 
Blake. 

Elizabeth hesitated. She could not see his 
face. 

“What do you mean?” 

“ How did you do it ? Was it hypnotism? ” 

“Oh, no — ” There was real horror in her 
voice. 

“It must have been.” 

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: 

“Do you remember how interested we used to 
be in hypnotism, David?” 

“Yes, that ’s partly what made me think of it. ” 

“We read everything we could lay hands on — 
all the books on psychic phenomena — Charcot’s 
experiments — everything. And do you remember 
the conclusion we came to?” 

“What was it?” 

“I don’t think you’ve forgotten. I can re- 
member you stamping up and down my little room 


182 


The Fire Within 


and saying, ‘It ’s a damnable thing, Elizabeth, a 
perfectly damnable thing. There ’s no end, ab- 
solutely none to the extent to which it undermines 
everything — I believe it is a much more real devil 
than any that the theologies produce/ That ’s 
what you said nine years ago, David, and I 
agreed with you. We used quite a lot of strong 
language between us, and I don’t feel called upon 
to retract any of it. Hypnotism is a damnable 
thing.” 

David pushed the cap back from his eyes as 
Elizabeth spoke, and raised himself on his elbow, 
so that he could see her face. 

“There are degrees,” he said, “and it’s very 
hard to define. How would you define it?” 

“It’s not easy. ‘The unlawful influence of 
one mind over another’?” 

“That ’s begging the question. At what point 
does it become unlawful? — that ’s the crux.” 

“I suppose at the point when force of will 
overbears sense — reason — conscience. You may 
persuade a man to lend you money, but you 
mayn’t pick his pocket or hypnotise him.” 

David laughed. 

“How practical!” 

Then very suddenly : 


Friendship 


183 


“ So it was n’t hypnotism. Are you sure ?” 

“Yes, quite sure.’’ 

“But can you be sure? There ’s such a thing 
as the unconscious exercise of will power. ’’ 

Elizabeth shook her head. 

“There is nothing in the least unconscious in 
what I do. I know very well what I am about, 
and I know enough about hypnotism to know 
that it is not that. I don’t use my will at all.” 

“What do you do? How is it done?” His 
tone was interested. 

“I think,” said Elizabeth slowly, “that it is 
done by realising, by getting into touch with 
Reality. Things like sleeplessness, pain, and 
strain are n’t right — they are n’t normal. They 
are like bad dreams. If one wakes — if one sees 
the reality — the dream is gone.” 

She spoke as if she were struggling to find words 
for some idea which filled her mind, but was hard 
to put into a communicable shape. 

“It is life on the Fourth Dimension,” she said 
at last. 

“Yes,” said David, “go on.” There was a 
slightly quizzical look in his eyes, but he was 
interested. “What do you mean by the Fourth 
Dimension?” 


184 


The Fire Within 


“We used to talk of that too, and lately I have 
thought about it a lot.” 

“Yes?” 

“It is so hard to put into words. Fourth 
Dimensional things won’t get into Third Dimen- 
sional words. One has to try and try, and then 
a little scrap of the meaning comes through. 
That is why there are so many creeds, so many 
sects. They are all an attempt to express — and 
one can’t really express the thing. I can’t say it, 
I can only feel it. It is limitless, and words are 
limited. There are no bounds or barriers. Take 
Thought, for instance — that is Fourth Dimen- 
sional — and Love. Religion is a purely Fourth 
Dimensional thing, and we all guess and translate 
as best we may. In all religions that have life, 
apprehension rises above the creed and reaches 
out to the Real — the untranslatable.” 

“Yes, that ’s true; but go on — define the Fourth 
Dimension. ” 

“I can see it, you know. It ’s another plane. 
It is the plane which permeates and inter-pene- 
trates all other planes — universal, eternal, un- 
changing. It ’s like the Fire of God — searching 
all things. It is the plane of Reality. Nothing is 
real which is not universal and unchanging and 


Friendship 


185 


eternal. If one can realise that plane, one is 
amongst the realities, and all that is unreal goes 
out. * There is no life but the Life of God, no 
consciousness but the Divine Consciousness.’ I 
think that is the best definition of all : * the Divine 
Consciousness. ’ ” 

He did not know that she was quoting, and he 
did not answer her or speak at all for some time. 
But at last he said: 

“So I slept, because you saw me in the Divine 
Consciousness; is that it?” 

“Something like that.” 

“You didn’t will that I should sleep?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Are you doing it still?” 

“Yes.” 

“Every night?” 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth again. 

David sat up. The mists in the valley 
beneath were golden, for the sun had dropped. 
As he looked, the gold turned grey, and the 
shadow of darkness to come rose out of the 
valley’s depths, though the hill-slope on which 
they sat was warm and sunny yet. David 
turned and saw that Elizabeth was watching 
him. 


i86 


The Fire Within 


“ I want you to stop whatever it is you do, ” he 
said abruptly. 

“Very well.” 

“I’m not as ungrateful as that sounds — ’ ’ 
He broke off, and Elizabeth said quickly : 

“Oh, no.” 

“You don’t think it?” 

“Why should I? You are well again. You 
don’t need my help any more. ” 

A shadow like the shadow of evening came 
over her as she spoke, but her smile betrayed 
nothing. 

They walked back to the hotel in silence. 

David had wondered if he would sleep. He 
slept all night, the sweet sound sleep of health and 
a mind unburdened. 

It was Elizabeth who did not sleep. She had 
walked with him through the valley of the shadow 
and he had come out of it a whole man again. 
Was she to cling to the shadow, because in the 
shadow David had clung to her? It came to that. 
She drove the thought home, and did not shirk the 
pain of it. They were come out into the light, 
and in the light he had no need of her. But this 
was not full daylight in which they walked — it 
was only the first chill grey of the dawn, and 


Friendship 


187 


there is always a need of Love. Love needs 
must give, and giving, blesses and is blessed, for 
Love is of the realities — a thing immutable and 
all -pervading. No man can shut out Love. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE DREAM 

My hand has never touched your hand, I have not seen your face, 
No sound of any spoken word has passed between us two — 
Yet night by night I come to you in some unearthly place, 

And all my dreams of day and night are dreams of love and you. 

The moon has never shone on us together in our sleep, 

The sun has never seen us kiss beneath the arch of day, 

Your eyes have never looked in mine — your soul has looked so 
deep, 

That all the sundering veils of sense are drawn and done away. 

My lids are sealed with more than sleep, but I am lapped in light, 
Your soul draws near, and yet more near, till both our souls 
are one, 

In that strange place of our content is neither day nor night, 

No end and no beginning, whilst the timeless aeons run. 

PVAVID came home after his month’s holiday 
as hard and healthy as a man may be. 
Elizabeth was well content. She and David were 
friends. He liked her company, he ate and slept, 
he was well, and he laughed sometimes as the old 
David had laughed. 


188 


The Dream 189 

“ Don’t you think your master looks well, Mrs. 
Havergill?” she said quite gaily. 

Mrs. Havergill sighed. 

“He do look well,” she admitted; “but there, 
ma’am, there ’s no saying — -it is n’t looks as we 
can go by. In my own family now, there was 
my sister Sarah. She was a fine, fresh-looking 
woman. Old Dr. Jones he met her out walking, 
as it might be on the Thursday. 

“ ‘ Well, Miss Sarah, you do look well,’ he says — 
and there, ’t were n’t but the following Tuesday 
as she was took. ‘Who ’d ha’ thought it,’ he says. 
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ and that ’s 
a true word. And my brother ’Enry now, ’e 
never look so well in all ’is life as when he was 
laying in ’is coffin.” 

Elizabeth could afford to laugh. 

“Oh, Mrs. Havergill, do be cheerful,” she 
implored; “it would be so much better for you. ” 

Mrs. Havergill looked injured. 

“I don’t see as we ’re sent into this world to 
be cheerful,” she said, with the air of one who 
reproves unchristian levity. 

“ Oh, but we are — we really are,” said Elizabeth. 

Mrs. Havergill shook her head. 

“Let them be cheerful as has no troubles,” she 


190 


The Fire Within 


remarked. “I've ’ad mine, and a-plenty,” and 
she went out of the room, sighing. 

Mary ran in to see her sister quite early on the 
morning after their return. 

“Well, Liz — no, let me look at you — I ’ll kiss 
you in a minute. Are you happy — you wrote 
dreadful guide-book letters, that I tore up and 
put in the fire.” 

“Oh, Molly.” 

“Yes, they were — exactly like Baedeker, only 
worse. All about mountains and flowers and the 
nice air, and ‘ David is quite well again. ’ As 
if anyone wanted to hear about mountains and 
flowers from a person on her honeymoon. Are 
you happy, Liz? ” 

“ Don’t I look happy?” said Elizabeth laughing. 

“Yes, you do.” Mary looked at her consider- 
ing. “You do. Is it all right, Liz, really all 
right?” 

“Yes, it’s really all right, Molly,” said Eliza- 
beth, and then she began to talk of other things. 

Mary kissed her very affectionately when she 
went away, but at the door she turned, frowning. 

“I expect you wrote reams to Agneta,” she 
said, and then shut the door quickly before Eliza- 
beth had time to answer. 


The Dream 


191 

David was out when Mary came, and it so 
happened that for two or three days they did not 
meet. He had come to dread the meeting. His 
passion for Mary was dead. He was afraid lest 
her presence, her voice, should raise the dead and 
bring it forth again in its garment of glamour and 
pain. Then on Sunday he came in to find Mary 
sitting there with Elizabeth in the twilight. She 
jumped up as he came in, and held out her hand. 

“Well, David, you are a nice brother — never to 
have come and seen me. Busy? Yes, of course 
you ’ve been busy, but you might have squeezed 
in a visit to me, amongst all the visits to sick old 
ladies and naughty little boys. Oh, do you know, 
Katie Ellerton has gone away? She took Ronnie 
to Brighton for a change, and then wrote and 
said she was n’t coming back. I believe she is 
going to live with a brother who is a solicitor down 
there. And she ’s selling her furniture, so if you 
want extra things you might get them cheap. ” 

“That ’s Elizabeth’s department,” said David, 
laughing. 

“Well, this is for you both. When will you 
come to dinner? On Tuesday? Yes, do. Talk 
about being busy. Edward ’s busy, if you like. 
I never see him, and he ’s quite worried. Liz, you 


192 


The Fire Within 


remember Jack Webster? Well, you know he ’s on 
the West Coast, and he ’s sent Edward a whole 
case of things — frightfully exciting specimens, 
two centipedes he ’s wanted for ever so long, and 
a spider that Jack says is new. And Edward 
has never even had time to open the case. That 
shows you! It ’s accounts, I believe. Edward 
does hate accounts.” 

When she had gone David sat silent for a long 
time. It was the old Mary, and prettier than 
ever. He had never seen her looking prettier, 
but his feeling for her was gone. He could look 
at her quite dispassionately, and wonder over the 
old unreasoning thrill. And what a chatterbox 
she was. Thank Heaven, she had had the sense 
to marry Edward, who was really not such a bad 
sort. Poor Edward. He laughed aloud suddenly, 
and Elizabeth looked up and asked : 

“What is it?” 

“Edward and the case he can’t open, and the 
centipedes he can’t play with,” he said, still 
laughing. “Poor old Edward! What it is to 
have a conscience. I wonder he does n’t have a 
midnight orgy with the centipedes, but I suppose 
Mary sees to that.” 

It was that night that David dreamed his dream 


The Dream 


193 


again. All these months it had never come to 
him. Amongst the many dreams that had haunted 
his sick brain, there had been no hint of this 
one. He had wondered about it sometimes. And 
now it returned. In the first deep sleep that 
comes to a healthy man he dreamed it. 

He heard the wind blowing — that was the 
beginning of it. It came from the far distances 
of space, and it passed on again to the far dis- 
tances beyond. David heard it blow, but his eyes 
were darkened. Then suddenly he saw. His 
feet were on the shining sand, the sand that shone 
because a golden moon looked down upon it from 
a clear sky, and the tide had left it wet. 

David stood upon the shining sand, and saw 
the Woman of the Dream stand where the moon- 
track ceased at the sea's rim. The moon was 
behind her head, and the wind blew out her hair. 
He stood as he had stood a hundred times, and 
as he had longed a hundred times to see the 
Woman’s face, so he longed now. He moved to 
go to her, and the wind blew about him in his 
dream. 

Elizabeth had sat late in her room. There was 
a book in her hand, but after a time she did not 
read. The night was very warm. She got up 


13 


194 


The Fire Within 


and opened the window wide. The moon was low 
and nearly full, and a wind blew out of the west — 
such a warm wind, full Qf the scent of green, 
growing things. Elizabeth put out the light and 
stood by the window, drawing long breaths. It 
seemed as if the wind were blowing right through 
her. It beat upon her uncovered throat, and 
the touch of it was like something alive. It 
sang in her ears, and Elizabeth’s blood sang 
too. 

And then, quite suddenly, she heard a sound 
that stopped her heart. She heard the handle 
of the door between her room and David’s turn 
softly, and she heard a step upon the threshold. 
All her life was at her heart, waiting. She could 
neither move, nor speak, nor draw her breath. 
And the wind blew out her long white dress, and 
the wind blew out her hair. As in a trance be- 
tween one world and the next, she heard a voice 
in the room. It was David’s voice, and yet not 
David’s voice, and it shook the very foundations 
of her being. 

“Turn round and let me see your face, Woman 
of my Dream,” said David Blake. 

Elizabeth stood quite still. Only her breath 
came again. The wind brought it back to her, 


The Dream 


195 

and as she drew it in, the step came nearer and 
David said again: 

“Show me your face — your face; I have never 
seen your face. ” 

She turned then, very slowly — in obedience to 
an effort, that left her drained of strength. 

David was standing in the middle of the room. 
His feet were bare, as he had risen from his bed, 
but his eyes were open, and they looked not at, 
but through Elizabeth, to the place where she 
walked in his dream. 

“Ah!” said David on a long, slow, sudden 
breath. 

He came nearer — nearer. Now he stood beside 
her, and the wind swept suddenly between them, 
and eddying, drove a great swathe of her unfas- 
tened hair across his breast. David put up his 
hand and touched the hair. 

“ But I can’t see your face, ” he said, in a strange, 
complaining note. “The moon shines on your 
hair, but not upon your face. Show me your 
face — your face ” 

She moved, and the moon shone on her. Her 
face was as white as ivory. Her eyes wide and 
dark — as dark as the darkening sky. They stood 
in silence, and the moon sank low. 


196 The Fire Within 

Then David put out his hands and touched her 
on the breast. 

“Now I have seen your face,” he said. “Now 
I am content because I have seen your face. I 
have gone hungry for the sight of it, and have 
gone thirsty for the love of you, and all the years 
I have never seen your face. ” 

“And now ?” 

Elizabeth’s voice came in a whisper. 

“Now I am content.” 

“Why?” 

“Your face is the face of Love,” said David 
Blake. 

His hands still held her hair. They lay against 
her heart, and moved a little as she breathed. 

A sudden terror raised its head and peered at 
Elizabeth. Mary — oh, God — if he took her for 
Mary. The thought struck her as with a spear 
of ice. It burned as ice bums, and froze her as ice 
freezes. Her lips were stiff as she forced out the 
words : 

“Who am I? Say.” 

His hands were warm. He answered her at 
once. 

“We are in the Dream, you and I. You are 
the Woman of the Dream. Your face is the face 


The Dream 


197 

of Love, and your hair — your floating hair — ” He 
paused. 

“My hair — what colour is my hair?” whispered 
Elizabeth. 

“Your hair — ” He lifted a strand of it. The 
wind played through it, and it brushed his cheek, 
then fell again upon her breast. His hand closed 
down upon it. 

“What colour is my hair?” said Elizabeth very 
quietly. Mary’s hair was dark. Even in the 
moonlight, Mary’s hair would be dark. If he 
said dark hair, dark like the night which would 
close upon them when that low moon was gone 
— what should she do — oh, God, what should 
she do? 

“Your hair is gold — moon gold, which is pale as 
a dream, ” said David Blake. And a great shudder 
ran through Elizabeth from head to foot as the ice 
went from her heart. 

“Like moon gold,” repeated David, and his 
hands were warm against her breast. 

And then all at once they were in the dark 
together, for the moon went out suddenly like a 
blown candle. She had dropped into a bank of 
clouds that rose from the clouding west. The 
wind blew a little chill, and as suddenly as the 


198 


The Fire Within 


light had gone, David, too, was gone. One 
moment, so near — touching her in the darkness 
— and the next, gone — gone noiselessly, leaving 
her shaking, quivering. 

When she could move, she lit a candle and 
looked in through the open door. David lay upon 
his side, with one hand under his cheek. He was 
sleeping like a child. 

Elizabeth shut the door. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE FACE OF LOVE 


Where have I seen these tall black trees, 
Two and two and three — yes, seven, 
Standing all about in a ring, 

And pointing up to Heaven? 


Where have I seen this black, black pool, 

That never ruffles to any breath, 

But stares and stares at the empty sky, 

As silently as death? 

How did we come here, you and I, 

With the pool beneath, and the trees above? 

Oh, even in death or the dusk of a dream, 

You are heart of the heart of Love. 

ELIZABETH was very pale when she came 
' down the next day. As she dressed, she 
could hear David singing and whistling in his 
room. He went down the stairs like a schoolboy, 
and when she followed she found him opening his 
letters and whistling still. 

“ Hullo !” he said. “Good-morning. You’re 
late, and I ’ve only got half an hour to breakfast 
199 


200 


The Fire Within 


in. I ’m starving, I don’t believe you gave me any 
dinner last night. I shall be late for lunch. 
Give me something cold when I come in, I ’ve 
got a pretty full day ” 

Elizabeth wondered as she listened to him if it 
were she who had dreamed. 

That evening he looked up suddenly from his 
book and said : 

“Was the moon full last night?” 

“Not quite.” 

Elizabeth was startled. Did he, after all, 
remember anything? 

“When is it full?” 

“To-morrow, I think. Why?” 

Her breathing quickened a little as she asked 
the question. 

“Because I dreamed my dream again last 
night, and it generally comes when the moon is 
full,” he said. 

Elizabeth turned, as if to get more light upon 
her book. She could not sit and let him see her 
face. 

“Your dream ?” 

Her voice was low. 

“Yes.” 

He paused for so long that the silence seemed 


The Face of Love 


201 


to close upon Elizabeth. Then he said thought- 
fully: 

“Dreams are odd things. I’ve had this one 
off and on since I was a boy. And it ’s always the 
same. But I have not had it for months. Then 
last night — ” He broke off. “Do you know 
I ’ve never told any one about it before — does it 
bore you?” 

“No,” said Elizabeth, and could not have said 
more to save her life. 

“It’s a queer dream, and it never varies. 
There ’s always the same long, wet stretch of 
sand, and the moon shining over the sea. And 
a woman ” 

“Yes ” 

“She stands at the edge of the sea with the 
moon behind her, and the wind — did I tell you 
about the wind? — it blows her hair and her dress. 
And I have never seen her face. ” 

“No?” 

“No, never. I’ve always wanted to, but I 
can never get near enough, and the moon is behind 
her. When I was a boy, I used to walk in my 
sleep when I had the dream. I used to wake up in 
all sorts of odd places. Once I got as far as the 
front-door step, and waked with my feet on the 


202 


The Fire Within 


wet stones. I suppose I was looking for the 
Woman. ” 

Elizabeth took a grip of herself. 

“Do you walk in your sleep now?” 

He shook his head. 

“Oh, no. Not since I was a boy,” he said 
cheerfully. “Mrs. Havergill would have evolved 
a ghost story long ago if I had.” 

“And last night your dream was just the 
same?” 

“Yes, just the same. It always ends just when 
it might get exciting. ” 

“Did you wake?” 

“No. That ’s the odd part. One is supposed 
to dream only when one is waking, and of course 
it ’s very hard to tell, but my impression is, that 
at the point where my dream ends I drop more 
deeply asleep. Dreams are queer things. I 
don’t know why I told you about this one.” 

He took up his book as he spoke, and they 
talked no more. 

Elizabeth went to her room early that night, 
but she did not get into bed. She moved about 
the room, hanging up the dress she had worn, 
folding her things — even sorting out a drawer full 


The Face of Love 203 

of odds and ends. It seemed as if she must 
occupy herself. 

Presently she heard David come up and go into 
his room. She went on rolling up stray bits of 
lace and ribbon with fingers that seemed oddly 
numb. When she had finished, she began to 
brush her hair, standing before the glass, and 
brushing with a long, rhythmic movement. After 
about ten minutes she turned suddenly and blew 
out the candle. She went to the window and 
opened it wide. 

Then, because she was trembling, she sat down 
on the window-seat and waited. The night came 
into the room and filled it. The trees moved 
above the water. The rumble of traffic in the 
High Street sounded very far away. It had no- 
thing to do with the world in which Elizabeth 
waited. There was no wind to-night. It was 
very still and warm. The moon shone. 

When the door opened, Elizabeth knew that she 
had known that he would come. He crossed the 
room and took her in his arms. She felt his arms 
about her, she felt his kiss, and there was nothing 
of the unsubstantial stuff of dreams in his strong 
clasp. For one moment, as her lips kissed too, 
she thought that he was awake — that he had 


204 


The Fire Within 


remembered, but as she stepped back and looked 
into his face she saw that he was in his dream. 
His eyes looked far away. Then he kissed her 
again, and dreaming or waking her soul went out 
of her and was his soul, her very consciousness was 
no more hers, but his, and she, too, saw that 
strange, moon-guarded shore, and she, too, heard 
the wind. But the night — the night was still. 
Where did it come from, this sudden rush of the 
wind, that seemed to blow through her? From 
far away it came, from very far away, and it passed 
through her and on to its own far place again, 
a rushing eddy of wind, whirling about some 
unknown centre. 

Elizabeth was giddy and faint with the singing 
of that wind in her ears. The moon was in her 
eyes. She trembled, and hid them upon David's 
breast. 

“David," she whispered at last, and he 
answered her. 

“ Love — love ” 

She turned a little from the light and looked at 
him. There was a smile upon his face, and his 
eyes smiled too. 

“Where are we?" she said. And David laid 
his face against hers and said : 


The Face of Love 


205 


“We are in the Dream.” 

“David, what is the Dream? Do you know? 
Tell me.” 

“It is the Dream,” he said, “the old dream, the 
dream that has no waking.” 

“And who am I? Am I Elizabeth?” She 
feared so much to say it, and could not rest till 
it was said. 

“Elizabeth.” He repeated the word, and 
paused. His eyes clouded. 

“You are the Woman of the Dream.” 

“But I have a name ” 

“Yes — you have a name, but I have forgotten 
— if I could remember it. It is the name — the old 
name — the name you had before the moon went 
down. It was at night. You kissed me. There 
were so many trees. I knew your name. Then 
the moon went down, and it was dark, and I for- 
got — not you — only the name. Are you angry, 
love, because I have forgotten your name?” 

There was trouble in his tone. 

“No, not angry,” said Elizabeth, with a quiver 
in her voice. “Will you call me Elizabeth, David ? 
Will you say Elizabeth to me?” 

He said “Elizabeth,” and as he said it his face 
changed. For a moment she thought that he 


206 


The Fire Within 


was waking. His arms dropped from about her, 
and he drew a long, deep breath that was like a 
sigh. 

Then he went slowly from her into the darkness 
of his own room, walking as if he saw. 

Elizabeth fell on her kne£s by the window-seat 
and hid her face. The wind still sang in her ears. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE FULL MOON 

The sun was cold, the dark dead Moon 
Hung low behind dull leaden bars, 

And you came barefoot down the sky 
Between the grey unlighted Stars. 

You laid your hand upon my soul, 

My soul that cried to you for rest, 

And all the light of the lost Sun 
Was in the comfort of your breast. 

There was no veil upon your heart, 
There was no veil upon your eyes; 

I did not know the Stars were dim, 

Nor long for that dead Moon to rise. 



‘HEY dined with Edward and Mary next day. 


1 The centipedes were still immured, and 
Edward made tentative overtures to David on 
the subject of broaching the case after dinner. 

“Edward is the soul of hospitality,” David said 
afterwards. “He keeps his best to the end. 
First, a positively good dinner, then some com- 
paratively enjoyable music, and, last of all, the 
superlatively enthralling centipedes.” 


207 


208 


The Fire Within 


At the time, he complied with a very good 
grace. He even contrived a respectable degree 
of enthusiasm when the subject came up. 

It was Mary who insisted on the comparatively 
agreeable music. 

“No — I will not have you two going off by 
yourselves the moment you ’ve .swallowed your 
dinner. It/s not good for people. Edward will 
certainly have indigestion — yes, Edward, you 
know you will. Come and have coffee with us in 
a proper and decent fashion, and we ’ll have some 
music, and then you shall do anything you like, 
and I ’ll talk to Elizabeth. ” 

Edward sang only one song, and then said that 
he was hoarse, which was not true. But Eliza- 
beth was glad when the door closed upon him and 
David, for the song Edward had sung was the one 
thing on earth which she felt least able to hear. 
He sang, 0 Moon of my Delight , transposed by 
Mary to suit his voice, and he sang it with his 
usual tuneful correctness. 

Elizabeth looked up only once, and that was 
just at the end. David was looking at her with a 
frown of perplexity. But as Edward remarked 
that he was hoarse, David passed his hand across 
his eyes for a moment, as if to brush something 


The Full Moon 


209 

away, and rose with alacrity to leave the 
room. 

When they were gone Mary drew a chair close 
to her sister and sat down. She was rather silent 
for a time, and Elizabeth was beginning to find it 
hard to keep her own thoughts at bay, when Mary 
said in a new, gentle voice: 

“Liz, I ’m so happy .” 

“Are you, Molly?” She spoke rather absently, 
and Mary became softly offended. 

“Don’t you want to know why, Liz? I don’t 
believe you care a bit. I don’t believe you ’d 
mind if I were ever so miserable, now that you ’ve 
got David, and are happy yourself!” 

Elizabeth came back to her surroundings. 

“Oh, Molly, what a goose you are, and what a 
monster you make me out. What is it, Molly- 
kins, tell me?” 

“I ’ve a great mind not to. I don’t believe 
you really care. I would n’t tell you a word, only 
I can’t help it. Oh, Liz, I ’m going to have a 
baby, and I thought I never should. I was mak- 
ing myself wretched about it.” 

She caught Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it. 

“Oh, Liz, be glad for me. I’m so glad and 
happy, and I want some one to be glad too. 


14 


210 


The Fire Within 


You don’t know how I ’ve wanted it. No one 
knows. I ’ve simply hated all the people in the 
Morning Post who had babies. I ’ve not even 
read the first column for weeks, and when Sybil 
Delamere sent me an invitation to her baby’s 
christening — she was married the same day I was, 
you know — I just tore it up and burnt it. And 
now it ’s really coming to me, and you ’re to be 
glad for me, Liz.” 

“ Molly, darling, I am glad — so glad.” 

“Really?” 

Mary looked up into her sister’s face, search- 
ingly. 

“You’re thinking of me, really of me — not 
about David, as you were just now? Oh, yes, I 
knew. ” 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“Really, Molly, mayn’t I think of my own 
husband?” 

“Not when I ’m telling you about a thing like 
this,” said Mary. “Liz, you are the first person 
I have told, the very first. ” 

Elizabeth did not allow her thoughts to wander 
again. As they talked, the rain beat heavily 
against the windows, and they heard the rush of 
it in the gutters below. 


The Full Moon 


21 1 


“What a pity,” Mary cried. “How quickly it 
has come up, and last night was so lovely. Did 
you see the moon? And to-night it is full.” 

“Yes, to-night it is full,” said Elizabeth. 

Edward and Mary came down to see their 
guests off. Edward shut the door behind them. 

“What a night!” he exclaimed. But Mary 
came close and whispered: 

“I’ve told her.” 

“Have you?” 

Edward’s tone was just the least shade per- 
functory. He slid home the bolt of the door and 
turning, caught Mary in his arms and hugged her. 

“O Mary, darling /” 

Mary glowed, responsive. 

“O Mary, darling, it really is a new spider,” 
he cried. 

David and Elizabeth walked home in a steady 
downpour. Mary had lent her overshoes, and she 
had tucked up her dress under a mackintosh of 
Edward’s. There was much merriment over 
their departure with a large umbrella between 
them, but as they walked home, they both grew 
silent. Elizabeth said good-night in the hall, 
and ran up to her room. To-night he would not 
come. Oh, to-night she felt quite sure that he 


212 


The Fire Within 


would not come. It was dark. She heard the 
rain falling into the river, and she could just see 
how the trees bent in the rush of it. And yet she 
sat for an hour, by her window, in the dark, wait- 
ing breathlessly for that which would not happen. 

The time went slowly by. The rain fell, and it 
was cold. Elizabeth lay down in the great square 
bed, and presently she slept, lulled by the steady 
dropping of the rain. She slept, and in her sleep 
she dreamed that she was sinking fathoms deep 
in a stormy, angry sea. Far overhead, she could 
hear the clash of the waves, and the long, long 
sullen roar of the swelling storm. And she went 
down and down into a black darkness that was 
deeper than any night — down, till she lost the 
roar of the storm above, down until all sound was 
gone, and she was alone in a black silence that 
would never lift or break again. Her soul was 
cold and blind, and most unendurably alone. 
Then something touched her, something that was 
warm. There came upon her that strange sense 
of home-coming, which comes to us in dreams, when 
love comes back to us across the sundering years, 
and all the pains of life, the pains of death, vanish 
and are gone, and we are come home — home to 
the place where we would be. 


The Full Moon 


213 


In her dream Elizabeth was come home. It was 
so long, so long, that she had wandered — so many 
years, so many lands — such weary feet and such a 
weary way. Now she was come home. 

She stirred and opened her eyes. The rain had 
ceased. The room was dark, but the moon shone, 
for a single shaft struck between the curtains and 
lay above the bed like a silver feather dropped 
from some great passing wing. 

Elizabeth was awake. She saw these things. 
She was come home. David’s arms were about 
her in the darkness. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE WOMAN OF THE DREAM 


Oh, was it in the dead of night, 

Or in the dark before the day, 

You came to me and kneeling, knew 
The thing that I would never say? 

There was no star, nor any moon, 

There was no light from pole to pole, 

And yet you saw the secret thing, 

That I had hid within my soul. 

You saw the secret and the shrine, 

You bowed your head and went your way — 

Oh, was it in the dead of night, 

Or in the dark that brings the day? 

F OR the next fortnight Elizabeth lived in a 
dream from which she scarcely woke by day. 
The dream life — the dream love — the dream itself 
— these became her life. In the moments that 
came nearest the waking she trembled, because if 
the dream was her life, the waking would be death. 
But for the rest of the time she walked in a trance. 
Earth budded, and the birds built nests. The 
green of woodland places went down under a 
214 


The Woman of the Dream 215 

flood of bluebells. The children made cowslip 
balls. All day long the sun shone out of a blue 
sky, and at night David came to her. Always he 
came at night, and went away in the dawn. And 
he remembered nothing. 

Once she put her face to his in the darkness, 
and said : 

“Oh, David, won’t you remember — won’t you 
ever remember? Am I only the Woman of the 
Dream? When will you remember?” 

Then David was troubled in his dream, and 
stirred and went from her an hour before the 
time of his going. 

Towards the end of the fortnight her trance 
wore thin. It was then that everything she saw or 
read seemed to press in upon one sore spot. If she 
went to the Mottisfonts’, there was Mary with 
her talk of Edward and the baby. Edward! — 
Elizabeth could have laughed; but the laughter 
went too. If there were not much of Edward, at 
least Mary had all that there was. And the child 
— did not she, too, desire children? But the child 
of a dream. How could she give to David the 
child of a dream already forgotten? If she walked, 
there were lovers in every lane, young lovers, who 
loved each other by day and in the eye of the 


216 


The Fire Within 


sun. If she took up a book — once what she read 
was: 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 

For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 

and another time, Kingsley’s Dolcino to Margaret . 
Then came a day when she opened her Bible and 
read: 

“If a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, 
because there is no light in him. ” 

That day she came broad awake. The daze 
passed from her. Her brain was clear, and her 
conscience — the inner vision rose before her, 
showing her an image troubled and confused. 
What had she done? And what was she doing 
now? Day by day David looked at her with the 
eyes of a friend, and night by night he came to 
her, the lover of a dream. Which was the reality? 
Which was the real David? If the David of the 
dream were real, conscious in sleep of some myste- 
rious oneness, the sense of which was lost in the 
glare of day — then she could wait, and bear, and 
hope, till the realisation was so strong that the 
sun might shine upon it and show to David awake 
what the sleeping David knew. 


The Woman of the Dream 217 

But if the David of the dream were not the 
real David, then what was she? Mistress and 
no wife — the mistress of a dream mood that 
never touched Reality at all. 

Two scalding tears in Elizabeth’s eyes — two 
and no more. The others burned her heart. 

And the thought stayed with her. 

That evening after dinner Elizabeth looked up 
from her embroidery. The silence had grown to 
be too full of thoughts. She could not bear it. 

“What are you reading, David?” she asked. 

He laughed and said : 

“Sentimental poetry, ma’am. Would you have 
suspected me of it? I find it very soothing. ” 

“Do you?” 

She paused, and then said with a flutter in her 
throat : 

“Do you ever write poetry now, David? You 
used to. ” 

“Yes, I remember boring you with it.” 

He coloured a little as he spoke. 

“But since then?” 

“Oh, yes ” 

1 ‘ Show me some 

“Not for the world.” 

“Why not?” 


2 18 


The Fire Within 


“Poetry is such an awful give away. How any 
one ever dares to publish any, I don’t know. I 
suppose they get hardened. But one’s most 
private letters aren’t a patch on it. One puts 
down all one’s grumbles, one’s moonstruck fancies, 
the ravings of one’s inanest moments. Mine are 
not for circulation, thanks.” 

Elizabeth did not laugh. Instead she said, 
quite seriously, 

“ David, I wish you would show me some of it. ” 

He looked rather surprised, but got up, and 
presently came back with some papers in his hand, 
and threw them into her lap. 

“There. There ’s one there that ’s rather odd. 
It ’s rotten poetry, but it gave me the oddest 
feelings when I wrote it. See if it does the same 
to you,” and he laughed. 

There were three poems in Elizabeth’s lap. 
The first was a vigorous bit of work — a ballad 
with a good ballad swing to it. Elizabeth read it 
and applauded. 

“This is much better than your old things,” 
she said, and he was manifestly pleased. 

The next was a set of clever verses on a political 
topic of passing interest. Elizabeth laughed over 
it and laid it aside. Her thoughts were pleasantly 


The Woman of the Dream 219 

diverted. Anything was welcome that brought 
her nearer to the David of the day. 

She took up the third poem. It was called: 

Egypt 


Egypt sands are burning hot. 

Burning hot and dry, 

How they scorched us as we worked, 
Toiling, you and I, 

When we built the Pyramid in Egypt. 


Heaven like hammered brass above, 
Earth like brass below, 

How the sweat of torment ran, 

All those years ago, 

When we built the Pyramid in Egypt. 


When the dreadful day was done, 
Night was like your eyes, 

Sweet and cool and comforting — 

We were very wise, 

When we built the Pyramid in Egypt. 


We were very wise, my dear, 
Children, lovers, gods, 

Where ’s the wisdom that we knew, 
With our world at odds, 

When we built the Pyramid in Egypt? 


220 


The Fire Within 


Now your hand is strange to mine, 

Now you heed me not, 

Life and death and love and pain, 

You have quite forgot, 

You have quite forgotten me and Egypt. 

I would bear it all again, 

Just to take your hand, 

Bend my body to the whip, 

Tread the burning sand, 

Build another Pyramid in Egypt. 

Toiling, toiling, all the day, 

Loving you by night, 

I ’d go back three thousand years 
If I only might, — 

Back to toil and pain and you and Egypt. 

When she looked up at the end, David spoke 
at once. 

“Well,” he said, “what does it say to you?” 

“I don't quite know.” 

“It set up one of those curious thought-waves. 
One seems to remember something out of an 
extraordinarily distant past. Have you ever felt 
it? I believe most people have. There are all 
sorts of theories to account for it. The two sides 
of the brain working unequally, and several others. 
But the impression is common enough, and the 
theories have been made to fit it. Of course the 


The Woman of the Dream 221 

one that fits most happily is the hopelessly un- 
scientific one of reincarnation. Well, my thought- 
wave took me back to Egypt and ” 

He hesitated. 

“Tell me/’ 

Elizabeth’s voice was eager. 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Yes, tell me.” 

He laughed at her earnestness. 

“Well, then — I saw the woman’s eyes.” 

“Yes.” 

“They were grey. That ’s all. And I thought 
it odd. ” 

He broke off, and Elizabeth asked no more. 
She knew very well why he had thought it odd 
that the woman’s eyes should be grey. The poems 
were dated, and Egypt bore the date of a year 
ago. He was in love with Mary then, and Mary’s 
eyes were dark — dark hazel eyes. 

That night she woke from a dream of Mary, 
and heard David whispering a name in his sleep, 
but she could not catch the name. The old 
shamed dread and horror came upon her, strong 
and unbroken. She slipped from bed, and stood 
by the window, panting for breath. And out of 
the darkness David called to her: 


222 


The Fire Within 


“Love, where are you gone to?” 

If he would say her name — if he would only say 
her name. She had no words to answer him, but 
she heard him rise and come to her. 

“Why did you go away?” he said, touching 
her. And as she had done once before, Elizabeth 
cried out. 

“Who am I, David? — tell me! Am I Mary?” 

He repeated the name slowly, and each repeti- 
tion was a wound. 

“Mary,” he said, wonderingly, “there is no 
Mary in the Dream. There are only you and I — 
and you are Love ” 

“And if I went out of the Dream?” said Eliza- 
beth, leaning against his breast. The comfort of 
his touch stole back into her heart. Her breath- 
ing steadied. 

“Then I would come and find you,” said David 
Blake. 

It was the next day that Agneta’s letter came. 
Elizabeth opened it at breakfast and exclaimed. 

“What is it?” 

She lifted a face of distress. 

“David, should you mind if I were to go away 
for a little? Agneta wants me.” 

“Agneta?” 


The Woman of the Dream 223 

‘‘Yes, Agneta Main waring. You remember, I 
used to go and stay with the Mainwarings in 
Devonshire. ” 

“Yes, I remember. What's the matter with 
her?" 

“She is engaged to Douglas Strange, the ex- 
plorer, and there are — rumours that his whole 
party has been massacred. He was working across 
Africa. She wants me to come to her. I think I 
must. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“ No, of course not. When do you want to go? ” 

“I should like to go to-day. I could send her 
a wire,” said Elizabeth. “I hope it’s only a 
rumour, and not true, but I must go. ” 

David nodded. 

“Don’t take it too much to heart, that ’s all,” 
he said. 

He said good-bye to her before he went out, 
told her to take care of herself, asked her to write, 
and inquired if she wanted any money. 

When he had gone, Elizabeth told herself that 
this was the end of the Dream. She could drift no 
more with the tide of that moon-watched sea. 
She must think things out and come to some 
decision. Hitherto, if she thought by day, the 
night with its glamour threw over her thoughts a 


224 


The Fire Within 


rainbow mist that hid and confused them. Now 
Agneta needed her, there would be work for her to 
do. And she would not see David again until 
she could look her conscience in the face. 


CHAPTER XXI 


ELIZABETH BLAKE 

Oh, that I had wings, yea wings like a dove, 

Then would I flee away and be at rest; 

Lo, the dove hath wings because she is a dove, 

God gave her wings and bade her build her nest. 

Thy wings are stronger far, strong wings of love, 

Thy home is sure in His unchanging rest. 

"PLIZABETH went up to London by the 12.22, 
^ which is a fast train, and only stops once. 

She found Agneta, worn, tired, and cross. 

“ Thank Heaven, you’ve come, Lizabeth, ” 
she said. “All my relations have been to see me. 
They are so kind. They are so dreadfully kind, 
and they all talk about its being God’s Will, and 
tell me what a beautiful thing resignation is. If I 
believed in a God who arranged for people to 
murder each other in order to give some one else 
a moral lesson, I ’d shoot myself. I really would. 
And resignation is a perfectly horrible thing. I 
do think I must be getting a little better than I 
used to be, because I was n’t even rude to Aunt 
IS 22 5 


226 


The Fire Within 


Henrietta, who told me I ought not to re pine, 
because all was for the best. She said chere 
were many trials in the married state, and that 
those who did not marry were spared the sorrow of 
losing a child or having an unfaithful husband. I 
really was n’t rude to her, Lizabeth — I swear I 
was n’t. But when I saw my cousin, Mabel 
Aston, coming up the street — you always can see 
her a mile off — I told Jane to say that I was very 
sorry, but I really could n’t see any one. Mabel 
won’t ever forgive me, because all the other 
relations will tell her that I saw them. I told them 
every one that I was perfectly certain that Douglas 
was all right. And so I am. Yes, really. But, 
oh, Lizabeth, how I do hate the newspapers. ” 

“I shouldn’t read them,” said Elizabeth. 

“I don’t! Nothing would induce me to. But 
I can’t stop my relations from quoting reams of 
them, verbatim. By the by, do you mind dining 
at seven to-night? I want to go to church. I 
don’t want you or Louis to come. Heavens, 
Lizabeth, you ’ve no idea what a relief it is not to 
have to be polite, and say you want people when 
you don’t.” 

When Agneta had gone out Elizabeth talked to 
Louis for a little, and then read. Presently she 


Elizabeth Blake 


227 


stopped reading and leaned back with closed eyes, 
thinking first of Agneta, then of herself and David. 
Louis’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. 

“Lizabeth, what is it?” 

She was startled. 

“Oh, I was just thinking.” 

He frowned. 

“What is the good?” he said. “I told you I 
could see. You ’re troubled, horribly troubled 
about something. And it ’s not Agneta. What 
is it?” 

Elizabeth was rather pale. 

“Oh, Louis,” she said, “please don’t. I’d 
rather you did n’t. And it ’s not what you think. 
It ’s not really a trouble. I ’m puzzled. I don’t 
know what to do. There ’s something I have to 
think out. And it ’s not clear — I can’t quite 
see ” 

Louis regarded her seriously. 

“If any man lack wisdom,” he said. “That ’s 
a pretty good thing in the pike-staff line. Good 
Lord, fancy me preaching to you. It ’s amusing, 
is n’t it?” 

He laughed a little. 

Elizabeth nodded. 

“You can go on, ” she said. 


228 


The Fire Within 


He considered. 

“I don’t know that I ’ve got anything more to 
say except that — things that puzzle one — there ’s 
always the touchstone of reality. And things 
one does n’t want to do because they ’re difficult, 
or because they hurt, or because they take us 
away from something we ’ve set our heart on — ■ 
well — if they ’re right, they ’re right, and there ’s 
an end of it. And the right thing, well, it ’s the 
best thing all round. And when we get where we 
can see it properly, it ’s — well, it ’s trumps all 
right.” 

Elizabeth nodded again. 

“Thank you, Louis,” she said. “I’ve been 
shirking. I think I ’ve really known it all along. 
Only when one shirks, it ’s part of it to wrap one- 
self up in a sort of mist, and call everything by a 
wrong name. I ’ve got to change my labels. . . .” 

Her voice died away, and they sat silent until 
Agneta’s key was heard in the latch. She came 
in looking rested. 

“Nice church?” said Elizabeth. 

“ Yes, ” said Agneta, ‘ ‘ very nice. I feel better. ’ ’ 

During the week that followed, Elizabeth had 
very little time to spare for her own concerns, and 
Agneta clung to her and clung to hope, and day 


Elizabeth Blake 


229 


by day the hope grew fainter. It was the half- 
hours when they waited for the telephone bell to 
ring that brought the grey threads into Agneta’s 
hair. Twice daily Louis rang up, and each time, 
after the same agonising suspense, came the same 
message, “No news yet. ” Towards the end of the 
week, there was a wire to say that a rumour had 
reached the coast that Mr. Strange was alive and 
on his way down the river. 

It was then that Agneta broke down. Whilst 
all had despaired, she had held desperately to 
hope, but when Louis followed his message home, 
he found Agneta with her head in Elizabeth's lap, 
weeping slow, hopeless tears. 

Then, forty-eight hours later, Douglas Strange 
himself cabled in code to say that he had aban- 
doned part of his journey owing to a native 
rising, and was returning at once to England. 

“And now, Lizabeth,” said Agneta, “now 
your visit begins, please. This has n’t been a 
visit, it has been purgatory. I ’m sure we ’ve both 
expiated all the sins we ’ve ever committed or are 
likely to commit. Louis, take the receiver off that 
brute of a telephone. I shall never, never hear a 
telephone bell again without wanting to scream. 
Lizabeth, let ’s go to a music hall. ’’ 


230 


The Fire Within 


Next day Agneta said suddenly: 

“Lizabeth, what is it?” 

“What is what?” 

Agneta’s little dark face became serious. 

“Lizabeth, I ’ve been a beast. I ’ve only been 
thinking about myself. Now it ’s your turn. 
What’s the matter?” 

Elizabeth was silent. 

“Mayn’t I ask? Do you mind?” 

Elizabeth shook her head. 

“Which is the ‘no’ for?” 

“Both,” said Elizabeth. 

“I must n’t ask then. You ’d rather not talk 
about it? Really?” 

“Yes, really, Neta, dear.” 

“Right you are.” 

Agneta was silent for a few minutes. They 
were sitting together in the firelight, and she 
watched the play of light and shade upon Eliza- 
beth’s face. It was beautiful, but troubled. 

“Lizabeth, you used not to be beautiful, but 
you are beautiful now,” she said suddenly. 
“Ami?” 

“Yes, I always loved your face, but it was n’t 
really beautiful. Now I think it is. ” 

“Anything else?” Elizabeth laughed a little. 


Elizabeth Blake 


231 


“Yes, the patient look has gone. You used to 
look so patient that it hurt . As if you were 
carrying a heavy load and just knew you had got 
to carry it without making any fuss.” 

“Issachar, in fact ” 

“No, not then, but I ’m not so sure now. I 
think there are two burdens now.” 

Elizabeth laid her hand on Agneta’s lips. 

“Agneta, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
Stop thought-reading this very minute. I never 
gave you leave.” 

“Sorry.” Agneta kissed the hand against her 
lips and laid it back in Elizabeth’s lap. “Oh, 
Lizabeth, why didn’t you marry Louis?” she 
said, and Elizabeth saw that her eyes were full of 
tears. The firelight danced on a brilliant, falling 
drop. 

“Because I love David,” said Elizabeth. 
“And love is worth while, Agneta. It is very 
well worth while. You knew it was when you 
thought that Douglas was dead. Would you 
have gone back to a year ago?” 

“Ah, Lizabeth, don’t,” said Agneta. 

She leaned her head against Elizabeth’s knee 
and was still. 

All that week, Elizabeth slept little and thought 


232 


The Fire Within 


much. And her thought was prayer. She did 
not kneel when she prayed, and she had her own 
idea of what prayer should be. Not petition. 
The Kingdom of Heaven is about us. We have 
but to open our eyes and take what is our 
own. Therefore not petition. What Elizabeth 
called prayer was far more like taking something 
out of the darkness, to look at it in the light. 
And before the light, all things evil, all things 
that were not good and not of God, vanished and 
were not. If thine eye be single, thy whole body 
shall be full of light. In this manner, David’s 
sleeplessness had been changed to rest and healing, 
and in this same manner, Elizabeth now knew that 
she must test the strange dream-state in which 
David loved her. And in her heart of hearts she 
did not think that it would stand the test. She 
believed that, subjected to this form of prayer, 
the dream would vanish and she be left alone. 

She faced the probability, and facing it, she 
prayed for light, for wisdom, for the Reality that 
annihilates the shadows of man’s thought. When 
she used words at all, they were the words of St. 
Patrick’s prayer: 

I bind to myself to-day, 

The Power of God to protect me, 


Elizabeth Blake 


233 


The Might of God to uphold me, 

The Wisdom of God to guide me, 

The Light of God to shine upon me, 

The Love of God to encompass me. 

During these days Agneta looked at her 
anxiously, but she asked no questions at all, 
and Elizabeth loved her for it. 

Elizabeth went home on the 15th of June. 
After hard struggle, she had come into a place 
of clear vision. If the dream stood the test, if in 
spite of all her strivings towards Truth, David still 
came to her, she would take the dream to be an 
earnest of some future waking. If the dream 
ceased, if David came no more, then she must 
cast her bread of love upon the waters of the 
Infinite, God only knowing, if after many days, 
she should be fed. 

David was very much pleased to have her 
back. He told her so with a laugh — confessed 
that he had missed her. 

When Elizabeth went to her room that night, 
she sat down on the window-seat and watched. It 
had rained, but the night was clear again. She 
looked from the window, and the midsummer 
beauty slid into her soul. The rain had washed 
the sky to an unearthly translucent purity, but 


234 


The Fire Within 


out of the west streamed a radiance of turquoise 
light. It filled the night, and as it mounted 
towards the zenith, the throbbing colour passed 
by imperceptible degrees into a sapphire haze. 
The horizon was a ghostly line of far, pure emerald. 
This transfiguring glow had all the sunset’s fire, 
only there was neither red nor gold in it. The 
ether itself flamed, and the colour of that flame 
was blue. It was the light of vision, the very light 
of a Midsummer’s Dream. The cloud that had shed 
the rain brooded apart with wings of folded gloom. 
Two or three drifting feathers of dark grey vapour 
barred the burning blue. Perishably fine, they 
dissolved against the glow, and one amazing star 
showed translucent at the vapour’s edge, now 
veiled, now blazing out as the mist wavered and 
withdrew from so much brightness. A night for 
love, a night for lovers’ dreams. 

Yearning came upon Elizabeth like a flood. 
Just once more to see him look at her with love. 
Just once more — once more, to feel his arms, his 
kiss — to weep upon his breast and say farewell. 

She put her hand out waveringly until it touched 
the wall. She shut her eyes against the beauty of 
the night, and strove with the longing that rent 
her. Her lips framed broken words. She said 


Elizabeth Blake 


235 


them over and over again until the tumult died 
in her, and she was mistress of her thoughts. 
Immortal love could never lose by Truth. 

Now she could look again upon the night. The 
trees were very black. The wind stirred them. 
The sky was full of light made mystical. Which 
of the temples that man has built, has light for 
its walls, and cloud and fire for its pillars? In 
which of them has the sun his tabernacle, through 
which of them does the moon pass, by a path of 
silver adoration? What altar is served by the 
rushing winds and lighted by the stars? In all 
the temples that man has made, man bows his 
head and worships, but in the Temple of the 
Universe it is the Heavens themselves that declare 
the Glory of God. 

Elizabeth’s thought rose up and up. In the 
divine peace it rested and was stilled. 

And David did not come. 


CHAPTER XXII 


AFTER THE DREAM 

In Him we live, He is our Source, our Spring, 

And we, His fashioning, 

We have no sight except by His foreseeing, 

In Him we live and move and have our being, 

He spake the Word, and lo! Creation stood, 

And God said, It is good. 

D AVID came no more. The dream was done. 

During the summer days there rang con- 
tinually in Elizabeth’s ears the words of a song — 
one of Christina’s wonderful songs that sing them- 
selves with no other music at all. 

The hope I dreamed of was a dream, 

Was but a dream, and now I wake 
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old, 

For a dream’s sake. 

*' ‘Exceeding comfortless.” Yes, there were 
hours when that was true. She had taken her 
heart and broken it for Truth’s sake, and the 
broken thing cried aloud of its hurt. Only by 
much striving could she still it and find peace. 

236 


After the Dream 


237 


The glamour of the June days was gone too. 
July was a wet and stormy month, and Elizabeth 
was thankful for the rain and the cold, at which 
all the world was grumbling. 

Mary came in one July day with a face that 
matched the weather. 

“Why, Molly,” said Elizabeth, kissing her, 
“what ’s the matter, child?” 

Mary might have asked the same question, 
but she was a great deal too much taken up with 
her own affairs. 

“Edward and I have quarrelled,” she said 
with a sob in the words, and sitting down, she 
burst into uncontrollable tears. 

“But what is it all about?” asked Elizabeth, 
with her arm around her sister. “Molly, do 
hush. It is so bad for you. What has Edward 
done?” 

“Men are brutes,” declared Mary. 

“Now, I’m sure Edward isn’t,” returned 
Elizabeth, with real conviction. 

Mary sat up. 

“He is,” she declared. 44 No, Liz, just listen. 
It was all over baby’s name.” 

“What, already?” 

“Well, of course, one plans things. If one 


238 


The Fire Within 


does n’t, well, there was Dorothy Jackson — don’t 
you remember? She was very ill, and the baby 
had to be christened in a hurry, because they 
did n’t think it was going to live. And nobody 
thought the name mattered, so the clergyman just 
gave it the first name that came into his head, and 
the baby did n’t die after all, and when Dorothy 
found she ’d got to go through life with a daughter 
called Harriet, she very nearly died all over again. 
So, you see, one has to think of things. So I had 
thought of a whole lot of names, and last night I 
said to Edward, ‘What shall we call it?’ and he 
looked awfully pleased and said, ‘What do you 
think?’ And I said, ‘What would you like best?’ 
And he said, ‘I ’d like it to be called after you, 
Mary, darling. I got Jack Webster’s answer to- 
day, and he says I may call it anything I like.’ 
Well, of course , I did n’t see what it had to do with 
Jack Webster, but I thought Edward must have 
asked him to be godfather. I was rather put 
out. I did n’t think it quite nice , beforehand, 
you know.” 

The bright colour of indignation had come into 
Mary’s cheeks, and she spoke with great energy. 

“Of course , I just thought that, and then Ed- 
ward said, ‘So it shall be called after you — Arachne 


After the Dream 


239 


Mariana.* I thought what hideous names, but 
all I said was, ‘Oh, darling, but I want a boy’; 
and do you know, Liz, Edward had been talking 
about a spider all the time — the spider that Jack 
Webster sent him. I don’t believe he cares 
nearly as much for the baby, I really don’t, and I 
wish I was dead. ” 

Mary sobbed afresh, and it took Elizabeth a 
good deal of her time to pacify her. 

Mrs. Havergill brought in tea, it being Sarah’s 
afternoon out. When she was taking away the 
tea-things, after Mary had gone, she observed: 

“Mrs. Mottisfont, she do look pale, ma’am.” 

“Mrs. Mottisfont is going to have a baby,” 
said Elizabeth, smiling. 

Mrs. Havergill appeared to dismiss Mary’s 
baby with a slight wave of the hand. 

“I ’ad a cousin as ’ad twenty-three,” she 
observed in tones of lofty detachment. 

“Not all at once?” said Elizabeth faintly. 

Mrs. Havergill took no notice of this remark. 

“Yes, twenty- three, pore soul. And when she 
was n’t ’aving of them, she was burying of them. 
Ten she buried, and thirteen she reared, and 
many ’s the time I ’ve ’eard ’er say, she did n’t 
know which was the most trouble.” 


240 


The Fire Within 


She went out with the tray, and later, when 
Sarah had returned, she repeated Mrs. Blake’s 
information in tones of sarcasm. 

“‘There’s to be a baby at the Mottisfonts’,’ 
she says, as if I did n’t know that. And I says, 
‘Yes, ma’am,’ and that ’s all as passed.” 

Mrs. Havergill had a way of forgetting her own 
not inconsiderable contributions to a conversation. 

“ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I says, expecting every moment 
as she ’d up and say, ‘and one ’ere, too, Mrs. 
Havergill,’ but no, not a blessed word, and me sure 
of it for weeks. But there — they ’re all the same 
with the first, every one ’s to be blind and deaf. 
All the same, Sarah, my girl, if she don’t want 
it talked about, she don’t, so just you mind and 
don’t talk, not if she don’t say nothing till the 
christening ’s ordered.” 

When Elizabeth knew that she was going to 
have a child, her first thought was, “Now, I 
must tell David,” and her next, “How can I tell 
him, how can I possibly tell him?” She lay on 
her bed in the darkness and faced the situation. 
If she told David, and he did not believe her — 
that was possible, but not probable. If she told 
him, and he believed her as to the facts — but 
believed also that this strange development was 


After the Dream 


241 


due in some way to some influence of hers — con- 
scious or unconscious hypotism — the thought 
broke off half-way. If he believed this— and it was 
likely that he would believe it — Elizabeth covered 
her eyes with her hand. Even the darkness was 
no shield. How should she meet David’s eyes 
in the light, if he were to believe this? What 
would he think of her? What must he think of 
her? She began to weep slow tears of shame 
and agony. What was she to do? To wait 
until some accident branded her in David’s eyes, 
or to go to him with a most unbelievable tale? 
She tried to find words that she could say, and 
she could find none. Her flesh shrank, and 
she knew that she could not do it. There were 
no words. The tears ran slowly, very slowly, 
between her fingers. Elizabeth was cold. The 
room was full of the empty dark. All the world 
was dark and empty too. She lay quite still for 
a very long time. Then there came upon her a 
curious gradual sense of companionship. It grew 
continually. At the last, she took her hands from 
before her face and opened her eyes. And there 
was a light in the room. It shed no glow on any- 
thing— it was just a light by itself. A steady, 
golden light. It was not moonlight, for there was 

16 


242 


The Fire Within 


no moon. Elizabeth lay and looked at it. It was 
very radiant and very soft. She ceased to weep 
and she ceased to be troubled. She knew with a 
certainty that never faltered again, that she and 
David were one. Whether he would become con- 
scious of their oneness during the space of this 
short mortal dream, she did not know, but it had 
ceased to matter. The thing that had tormented 
her was her own doubt. Now that was stilled 
for ever — Love walked again among the realities, 
pure and unashamed. The things of Time — the 
mistakes, the illusions, the shadows of Time — 
moved in a little misty dream, that could not 
touch her. Elizabeth turned on her side. She 
was warm and she was comforted. 

She slept. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


ELIZABETH WAITS 


And they that have seen and heard, 

Have wrested a gift from Fate 
That no man taketh away. 

For they hold in their hands the key, 

To all that is this-side Death, 

And they count it as dust by the way, 

As small dust, driven before the breath 
Of Winds that blow to the day. 

“rXO you remember my telling you about my 
dream?” said David, next day. He spoke 
quite suddenly, looking up from a letter that he 
was writing. 

“Yes, I remember,” said Elizabeth. She even 
smiled a little. 

“Well, it was so odd — I really don't know what 
made me think of it just now, but it happened to 
come into my head — do you know that I dreamt 
it every night for about a fortnight? That was 
in May. I have never done such a thing before. 
Then it stopped again quite suddenly, and I 
243 


244 


The Fire Within 


have n’t dreamt it since. I wonder whether 
speaking of it to you — ” he broke off. 

‘‘I wonder,” said Elizabeth. 

“You see it came again and again. And the 
strange part was that I used to wake in the morn- 
ing feeling as if there was a lot more of it. A lot 
more than there used to be. Things I could n’t 
remember — I don’t know why I tell you this.” 

“It interests me,” said Elizabeth. 

“You know how one forgets a dream, and then, 
quite suddenly, you just don’t remember it. It ’s 
the queerest thing — something gets the impression, 
but the brain does n’t record it. It ’s most amaz- 
ingly provoking. Just now, while I was writing 
to Fossett, bits of something came over me like 
a flash. And now it ’s gone again. Do you ever 
dream?” 

1 ‘ Sometimes , ’ ’ said Elizabeth . 

This was her time to tell him. But Elizabeth 
did not tell him. It seemed to her that she had 
been told, quite definitely, to wait, and she was 
dimly aware of the reason. The time was not yet. 

David finished his letter. Then he said : 

“Don’t you want to go away this summer?” 

“No,” said Elizabeth, a little surprised. “I 
don’t think I do. Why?” 


Elizabeth Waits 


245 

‘‘Most people seem to go away. Mary would 
like you to go with her, would n’t she?” 

“\es, but I ’ve told her I don’t want to go. 
She won’t be alone, you know, now that Edward 
finds that he can get away. ” 

David laughed. 

“Poor old Edward,” he said. “A month ago 
the business couldn’t get on without him. He 
was conscience-ridden, and snatched exiguous 
half-hours for Mary and his beetles. And now 
it appears, that after all, the business can get on 
without him. I don’t know quite how Mac- 
pherson brought that fact home to Edward. He 
must have put it very straight, and I ’m afraid 
that Edward’s feelings were a good deal hurt. 
Personally, I should say that the less Edward 
interferes with Macpherson the more radiantly 
will bank-managers smile upon Edward. Edward 
is a well-meaning person. Mr. Mottisfont would 
have called him damn well-meaning. And you 
cannot damn any man deeper than that in busi- 
ness. No, Edward can afford to take a holiday 
better than most people. He will probably start 
a marine collection and be perfectly happy. Why 
don’t you join them for a bit?” 

“I don’t think I want to,” said Elizabeth. 


246 


The Fire Within 


“I’m going up to London for Agneta’s wedding 
next week. I don’t want to go anywhere else. 
Do you want to get rid of me?” 

To her surprise, David coloured. 

“I?” he said. For a moment an odd expression 
passed across his face. Then he laughed. 

“ I might have wanted to flirt with Miss Dobell.” 

Agneta Mainwaring was married at the end of 
July. 

“It ’s going to be the most awful show,” she 
wrote to Elizabeth. “Douglas and I spend all 
our time trying to persuade each other that it 
is n’t going to be awful, but we know it is. All 
our relations and all our friends, and all their 
children and all their best clothes, and an amount 
of fuss, worry, and botheration calculated to drive 
any one crazy. If I had n’t an enormous amount 
of self-control I should bolt, either with or without 
Douglas. Probably without him. Then he ’d 
have a really thrilling time tracking me down. 
It ’s an awful temptation, and if you don’t want 
me to give way to it, you ’d better come up at 
least three days beforehand, and clamp on to me. 
Do come, Lizabeth. I really want you.” 

Elizabeth went up to London the day before 


Elizabeth Waits 


247 

the wedding, and Agneta detached herself suffi- 
ciently from her own dream to say : 

“ You ’re not Issachar any longer. What has 
happened?” 

“I don’t quite know,” said Elizabeth. “I 
don’t think the burden ’s gone, but I think that 
some one else is carrying it for me. I don’t seem 
to feel it any more.” 

Agneta smiled a queer little smile of under- 
standing. Then she laughed. 

“Good Heavens, Lizabeth, if any one heard us 
talking, how perfectly mad they would think 
us.” 

Elizabeth found August a very peaceful month. 
A large number of her friends and acquaintances 
were away. There were no calls to be paid and 
no notes to be written. She and David were 
more together than they had been since the time 
in Switzerland, and she was happy with a strange 
brooding happiness, which was not yet complete, 
but which awaited completion. She thought a 
great deal about the child — the child of the Dream. 
She came to think of it as an indication that be- 
hind the Dream was the Real. 

Mary came back on the 15th of September. 
She was looking very well, and was once more in a 


248 


The Fire Within 


state of extreme contentment with Edward and 
things in general. When she had poured forth 
a complete catalogue of all that they had done, 
she paused for breath, and looked suddenly and 
sharply at Elizabeth. 

“Liz,” she said. “Why, Liz.” 

To Elizabeth’s annoyance, she felt herself 
colouring. 

“Liz, and you never told me. Tell me at once. 
Is it true? Why did n’t you tell me before?” 

“Oh, Molly, what an Inquisitor you would 
have made!” 

“Then it is true. And I suppose you told 
Agneta weeks ago?” 

“I haven’t told any one,” said Elizabeth. 

“Not Agneta? And I suppose if I hadn’t 
guessed you would n’t have told me for ages and 
ages and ages. Why did n’t you tell me, Liz?” 

“Why, I thought I ’d wait till you came back, 
Molly.” 

Mary caught her sister ’s hand. 

“Liz, aren’t you glad? Aren’t you pleased? 
Does n’t it make you happy? Oh, Liz, if I thought 
you were one of those dreadful women who don’t 
want to have a baby, I — I don’t know what I 
should do. I wanted to tell everybody. But 


Elizabeth Waits 


249 

then I was pleased . I don’t believe you ’re a bit 
pleased . Are you ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know that pleased is exactly the word, ” 
said Elizabeth. She looked at Mary and laughed 
a little. 

“Oh, Molly, do stop being Mrs. Grundy.” 

Mary lifted her chin. 

“Just because I was interested,” she said. “I 
suppose you ’d rather I did n’t care.” 

Then she relaxed a little. 

“Liz, I ’m frightfully excited. Do be pleased 
and excited too. Why are you so stiff and odd? 
Isn’t David pleased?” 

She had looked away, but she turned quickly 
at the last words, and fixed her eyes on Elizabeth’s 
face. And for a moment Elizabeth had been off 
her guard. 

Mary exclaimed. 

“Isn’t he pleased? Doesn’t he know? Liz, 
you don’t mean to tell me ” 

“I don’t think you give me much time to tell 
you anything, Molly,” said Elizabeth. 

“He does n’t know? Liz, what ’s happened to 
you? Why are you so extraordinary? It ’s the 
sort of thing you read about in an early 
Victorian novel. Do you mean to say that you 


250 


The Fire Within 


really have n’t told David? That he does n’t 
know?” 

Elizabeth’s colour rose. 

“Molly, my dear, do you think it is your busi- 
ness?” she said. 

“ Yes, I do, ” said Mary. “ I suppose you won’t 
pretend you ’re not my own sister. And I think 
you must be quite mad, Liz. I do, indeed. You 
ought to tell David at once — at once. I can’t 
imagine what Edward would have said if he had not 
known at once. You ought to go straight home 
and tell him now. Married people ought to be 
one. They ought never to have secrets.” 

Mary poured the whole thing out to Edward the 
same evening. 

“I really don’t know what has happened to 
Elizabeth,” she said. “She is quite changed. I 
can’t understand her at all. I think it is quite 
wicked of her. If she does n’t tell David soon, 
some one else ought to tell him.” 

Edward moved uneasily in his chair. 

“People don’t like being interfered with,” he 
said. 

“Well, I ’m sure nobody could call me an 
interfering person, ” said Mary. “It isn’t inter- 
fering to be fond of people. If I were n’t fond of 


Elizabeth Waits 


251 


Liz, I should n’t care how strangely she behaved. 
I do think it ’s very strange of her — and I don’t 
care what you say, Edward. I think David ought 
to be told. How would you have liked it if I ’d 
hidden things from you?” 

Edward rumpled up his hair. 

“ People don't like being interfered with,” he 
said again. 

At this Mary burst into tears, and continued 
to weep until Edward had called himself a brute 
sufficiently often to justify her contradicting him. 

Elizabeth continued to wait. She was not' quite 
as untroubled as she had been. The scene with 
Mary had brought the whole world of other 
people’s thoughts and judgments much nearer. 
It was a troubling world. One full of shadows 
and perplexities. It pressed upon her a little and 
vexed her peace. 

The days slid by. They had been pleasant days 
for David, too. For some time past he had been 
aware of a change in himself — a ferment. His old 
passion for Mary was dust. He looked back upon 
it now, and saw it as a delirium of the senses, a 
thing of change and fever. It was gone. He 
rejoiced in his freedom and began to look forward 
to the time when he and Elizabeth would enter 


252 


The Fire Within 


upon a married life founded upon friendship, 
companionship, and good fellowship. He had no 
desire to fall in love with Elizabeth, to go back to 
the old storms of passion and unrest. He cared a 
good deal for Elizabeth. When she was his wife 
he would care for her more deeply, but still on the 
same lines. He hoped that they would have 
children. He was very fond of children. And 
then, after he had planned it all out in his own 
mind, he became aware of the change, the ferment. 
What he felt did not come into the plan at all. 
He disliked it and he distrusted it, but none the 
less the change went on, the ferment grew. It 
was as if he had planned to walk on a clear, wide 
upland, under a still, untroubled air. In his own 
mind he had a vision of such a place. It was a 
place where a man might walk and be master of 
himself, and then suddenly — the driving of a 
mighty wind, and he could not tell from whence it 
came, or whither it went. The wind bloweth 
where it listeth. In those September days the 
wind blew very strongly, and as it blew, David 
came slowly to the knowledge that he loved 
Elizabeth. It was a love that seemed to rise in 
him from some great depth. He could not have 
told when it began. As the days passed, he 


Elizabeth Waits 


253 


wondered sometimes whether it had not been 
there always, deep amongst the deepest springs 
of thought and will. There was no fever in it. 
It was a thing so strong and sane and wholesome 
that, after the first wonder, it seemed to him to be 
a part of himself, a part which, missing, he had 
lost balance and mental poise. 

He spoke to Elizabeth as usual, but he looked 
at her with new eyes. And he, too, waited. 

He came home one day to find the household in a 
commotion. It appeared that Sarah had scalded 
her hand, Elizabeth was out, and Mrs. Havergill 
was divided between the rival merits of flour, oil, 
and a patent preparation which she had found very 
useful when suffering from chilblains. She safe- 
guarded her infallibility by remarking, that there 
was some as held with one thing and some as held 
with another. She also observed, that “scalds 
were ’orrid things . 99 

“Now, there was an ’ousemaid I knew, Milly 
Clarke her name was, she scalded her hand very 
much the same as you ’ave, Sarah, and first thing, 
it swelled up as big as my two legs and arter that 
it turned to blood-poisoning, and the doctors 
could n’t do nothing for her, pore girl. ” 

At this point Sarah broke into noisy weeping 


254 


The Fire Within 


and David arrived. When he had bound up the 
hand, consoled the trembling Sarah, and suggested 
that she should have a cup of tea, he inquired 
where Elizabeth was. She might be at Mrs. 
Mottisfont’s, suggested Mrs. Havergill, as she 
followed him into the hall. 

‘‘You ’re not thinking of sending Sarah to the 
’orspital, are you sir?” 

“No, of course not, she ’ll be all right in a day 
or two. I ’ll just walk up the hill and meet Mrs. 
Blake.” 

“I’m sure it ’s a mercy she were out,” said 
Mrs. Havergill. 

“ Why ? ” said David, turning at the door. Mrs. 
Havergill assumed an air of matronly importance. 

“It might ha’ given her a turn, ” she said, “for 
the pore girl did scream something dreadful. I ’m 
sure it give me a turn, but that ’s neither here nor 
there. What I was thinking of was Mrs. Blake’s 
condition, sir.” 

Mrs. Havergill was obviously a little nettled 
at David’s expression. 

“Nonsense,” said David quickly. 

Mrs. Havergill went back to Sarah. 

“ ‘ Nonsense, ’ he says, and him a doctor. Why, 
there was me own pore mother as died with her 


Elizabeth Waits 


255 


ninth, and all along of a turn she got through seeing 
a child run over. And he says, ‘Nonsense.’ ” 
David walked up the hill in a state of mind 
between impatience and amusement. How wo- 
men’s minds did run on babies. He supposed it 
was natural, but there were times when one could 
dispense with it. 

He found Mary at home and alone. “Eliza- 
beth? Oh, no, she has n’t been near me for days, ” 
said Mary. “As it happened, I particularly 
wanted to see her. But she has n’t been near me. ” 
She considered that Elizabeth was neglecting 
her. Only that morning she had told Edward so. 

“She does n’t come to see me on purpose , ” she 
had said. “But I know quite well why. I don’t 
at all approve of the way she ’s going on, and she 
knows it. I don’t think it ’s right . I think some 
one ought to tell David. No, Edward, I really 
do. I don’t understand Elizabeth at all, and she ’s 
simply afraid to come and see me because she 
knows that I shall speak my mind. ” 

Now, as she sat and talked to David, the idea 
that it might be her duty to enlighten him pre- 
sented itself to her mind afresh. A sudden and 
brilliant idea came into her head, and she imme- 
diately proceeded to act upon it. 


256 


The Fire Within 


“ I had a special reason for wanting to see her, ” 
she said. “I had a lovely box of things down 
from town on approval, and I wanted her to see 
them. ” 

‘ ‘ Things ? ’ * said David. 

“Oh, clothes,” said Mary, with a wave of the 
hand. “You know they ’ll send you anything 
now. By the way, I bought a present for Liz, 
though she does n’t deserve it. Will you take it 
down to her? I ’ll get it if you don’t mind waiting 
a minute.” 

She was away for five minutes, and then re- 
turned with a small brown-paper parcel in her hand. 

“You can open it when you get home,” she 
said. “ Open it and show it to Liz, and see whether 
you like it. Tell her I sent it with my love. ” 

“Now there won’t be any more nonsense,” she 
told Edward. 

Edward looked rather unhappy, but, warned 
by previous experience, said nothing. 

David found Elizabeth in the dining-room. 
She was putting a large bunch of scarlet gladioli 
into a brown jug upon the mantelpiece. 

“I ’ve got a present for you,” said David. 

“David, how nice of you. It ’s not my birth- 
day.” 


Elizabeth Waits 


257 


“I’m afraid it *s not from me at all. I looked 
in to see if you were with Mary, and she sent you 
this, with her love. By the way, you ’d better go 
and see her, I think she ’s rather huffed. ” 

As he spoke he was undoing the parcel. Eliza- 
beth had her back towards him. The flowers 
would not stand up just as she wished them to. 

“I can’t think why Molly should send me a 
present, ” she said, and then all at once something 
made her turn round. 

The brown-paper wrapping lay on the table. 
David had taken something white out of the 
parcel. He held it up and they both looked at it. 
It was a baby’s robe, very fine, and delicately 
embroidered. 

Elizabeth made a wavering step forward. The 
light danced on the white robe, and not only on 
the robe. All the room was full of small dancing 
lights. Elizabeth put her hand behind her and 
felt for the edge of the mantelpiece. She could 
not find it. Everything was shaking. She swung 
half round, and all the dancing lights flashed in her 
eyes as she fell forwards. 


17 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE LOST NAME 


You are as old as Egypt, and as young as yesterday, 

Oh, turn again and look again, for when you look I know 
The dusk of death is but a dream, that dreaming, dies away 
And leaves you with the lips I loved, three thousand years ago. 

The mists of that forgotten dream, they fill your brooding eyes, 
With veil on strange revealing veil that wavers, and is gone, 
And still between the veiling mists, the dim, dead centuries rise, 
And still behind the farthest veil, your burning soul burns on. 

You are as old as Egypt, and as young as very Youth, 

Before your still, immortal eyes the ages come and go, 

The dusk of death is but a dream that dims the face of Truth — 
Oh, turn again, and look again, for when you look, I know. 


HEN Elizabeth came to herself, the room 



* * was full of mist. Through the mist, she 
saw David’s face, and quite suddenly in these few 
minutes it had grown years older. 

He spoke. He seemed a long way off. 


“ Drink this.” 

“What is it?” said Elizabeth faintly. 
“Water.” 

Elizabeth raised herself a little and drank. The 


258 


The Lost Name 


259 


faintness passed. She became aware that the 
collar of her dress was unfastened, and she sat up 
and began to fasten it. 

David got up, too. 

“I am all right.” 

There was no mist before Elizabeth’s eyes now. 
They saw clearly, quite, quite clearly. She looked 
at David, and David’s face was grey — old and 
grey. So it had come. Now in this hour of 
physical weakness. The thing she dreaded. 

To her own surprise, she felt no dread now. 
Only a great weariness. What could she say? 
What was she to say? All seemed useless — not 
worth while. But then there was David’s face, 
his grey, old face. She must do her best — not for 
her own sake, but for David’s. 

She wondered a little that it should hurt him so 
much. It was not as though he loved her, or had 
ever loved her. Only of course this was a thing to 
cut a man, down to the very quick of his pride and 
his self-respect. It was that — of course it was that. 

Whilst she was thinking, David spoke. He was 
standing by the table fingering the piece of string 
that lay there. 

“Elizabeth, do you know why you fainted?” 
he said. 


260 


The Fire Within 


“ Yes,” said Elizabeth, and said no more. 

A sort of shudder passed over David Blake. 

“Then it *s true,” he said in a voice that was 
hardly a voice at all. There was a sound, and 
there were words. But it was not like a man 
speaking. It was like a long, quick breath of 
pain. 

“ Yes, ” said Elizabeth. “ It is true, David. ” 

There was a very great pity in her eyes. 

“ Oh, my God! ” said David, and he sat down by 
the table and put his head in his hands. “ Oh, my 
God!” he said again. 

Elizabeth got up. She was trembling just a 
little, but she felt no faintness now. She put one 
hand on the mantelpiece, and so stood, waiting. 

There was a very long silence, one of those pro- 
found silences which seem to break in upon a room 
and fill it. They overlie and blot out all the little 
sounds of every-day life and usage. Outside, 
people came and went, the traffic in the High 
Street came and went, but neither to David, nor 
to Elizabeth, did there come the smallest sound. 
They were enclosed in a silence that seemed to 
stretch unbroken, from one Eternity to another. 
It became an unbearable torment. To his dying 
day, when any one spoke of hell, David glimpsed 


The Lost Name 


261 


a place of eternal silence, where anguish burned 
for ever with a still unwavering flame. 

He moved at last, slowly, like a man who has 
been in a trance. His head lifted. He got up, 
resting his weight upon his hands. Then he 
straightened himself. All his movements were 
like those of a man who is lifting an intolerably 
heavy load. 

“Why did you marry me?” he asked in a tired 
voice, and then his tone hardened. “Who is the 
man? Who is he? Will he marry you if I 
divorce you?” 

An unbearable pang of pity went through 
Elizabeth, and she turned her head sharply. 
David stopped looking at her. 

She to be ashamed — oh, God! — Elizabeth 
ashamed — he could not look at her. He walked 
quickly to the window. Then turned back again 
because Elizabeth was speaking. 

“David,” she said, in a low voice, “David, 
what sort of woman am I?” 

A groan burst from David. 

“You are a good woman. That’s just the 
damnable part of it. There are some women, 
when they do a thing like this, one only says 
they ’ve done after their kind — they ’re gone 


262 


The Fire Within 


where they belong. When a good woman does 
it, it ’s Hell — just Hell. And you ’re a good 
woman.” 

Elizabeth was looking down. She could not 
bear his face. 

“And would you say I was a truthful woman?” 
she said. “If I were to tell you the truth, would 
you believe me, David?” 

“Yes,” said David at once. “Yes, I ’d believe 
you. If you told me anything at all you ’d tell 
me the truth. Why shouldn’t I believe you?” 

“Because the truth is very unbelievable,” 
said Elizabeth. 

David lifted his head and looked at her. 

“ Oh, you ’ll not lie, ” he said. 

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. After a mo- 
ment’s pause, she went on. 

“Will you sit down, David? I don’t think I 
can speak if you walk up and down like that. It ’s 
not very easy to speak. ” 

He sat down in a big chair, that stood with its 
back to the window. 

“David,” she said, “when we were in Switzer- 
land, you asked me how I had put you to sleep. 
You asked me if I had hypnotised you. I said, 
No. I want to know if you believed me?” 


The Lost Name 


263 


“I don’t know what I believed,” said David 
wearily. The question appeared to him to be 
entirely irrelevant and unimportant. 

1 ‘When you hypnotise a person, you are pro- 
ducing an illusion,” said Elizabeth. “The effect 
of what I did was to destroy one. But whatever 
I did, when you asked me to stop doing it, I 
stopped. You do believe that?” 

1 1 Y es — I believe that. ’ ’ 

“I stopped at once — definitely. You must 
please believe that. Presently you will see why 
I say this.” 

All the time she had been standing quietly 
by the mantelpiece. Now she came across and 
kneeled down beside David’s chair. She laid her 
hands one above the other upon the broad arm, 
and she looked, not at David at all, but at her 
own hands. It was the penitent’s attitude, but 
David Blake, looking at her, found nothing of the 
penitent’s expression. The light shone full upon 
her face. There was a look upon it that startled 
him. Her face was white and still. The look 
that riveted David’s attention was a look of 
remoteness — passionless remoteness — and over all 
a sort of patience. 

Elizabeth looked down at her strong folded 


264 


The Fire Within 


hands, and began to speak in a quiet, gentle 
voice. The sapphire in her ring caught the light. 

“David, just now you asked me why I married 
you. You never asked me that before. I am 
going to tell you now. I married you because I 
loved you very much. I thought I could help, 
and I loved you. That is why I married you. 
You won’t speak, please, till I have done. It 
isn’t easy.” 

She drew a long, steady breath and went on. 

“I knew you did n’t love me, you loved Mary. 
It was n’t good for you. I knew that you would 
never love me. I was — content — with friend- 
ship. You gave me friendship. Then we came 
home. And you stopped loving Mary. I was 
very thankful — for you — not for myself.” 

She stopped for a moment. David was looking 
at her. Her words fell on his heart, word after 
word, like scalding tears. So she had loved him — 
it only needed that. Why did she tell him now 
when it was all too late — hideously too late? 

Elizabeth went on. 

“Do you remember, when we had been home 
a week, you dreamed your dream? Your old 
dream — you told me of it, one evening — but I 
knew already ” 


The Lost Name 


265 


“Knew?” 

“No, don’t speak. I can’t go on if you speak. 
I knew because when you dreamed your dream 
you came to me. ” 

She bent lower over her hands. Her breathing 
quickened. She scarcely heard David’s startled 
exclamation. She must say it — and it was so 
hard. Her heart beat so — it was so hard to steady 
her voice. 

“You came into my room. It was late. The 
window was open, and the wind was blowing in. 
The moon was going down. I was standing by 
the window in my night-dress — and you spoke. 
You said, 'Turn round, and let me see your face.’ 
Then I turned round and you came to me and 
touched me. You touched me and you spoke, 
and then you went away. And the next night 
you came again. You were in your dream, and in 
your dream you loved me. We talked. I said, 
‘Who am I?’ and you said, ‘You are the Woman of 
my Dream,’ and you kissed me, and then you 
went away. But the third night — the third night 
— I woke up — in the dark — and you were 
there.” 

After that first start, David sat rigid and 
watched her face. He saw her lips quiver — the 


266 


The Fire Within 


patience of her face break into pain. He knew 
the effort with which she spoke. 

“You came every night — for a fortnight. I 
used to think you would wake — but you never 
did. You went away before the dawn — always. 
You never waked — you never remembered. In 
your dream you loved me — you loved me very 
much. In the daytime you did n’t love me at all. 
I got to feel I could n’t bear it. I went away to 
Agneta, and there I thought it all out. I knew 
what I had to do. I think I had really known all 
along. But I was shirking. That ’s why it 
hurt so much. If you shirk, you always get 
hurt.” 

Elizabeth paused for a moment. She was 
looking at the blue of her ring. It shone. There 
was a little star in the heart of it. 

“It ’s very difficult to explain,” she said. “I 
suppose you would say I prayed. Do you remem- 
ber asking me, if you had slept because I saw you 
in the Divine Consciousness? That ’s the nearest 
I can get to explaining. I tried to see the whole 
thing — us — the Dream — in the Divine Conscious- 
ness, and you stopped dreaming. I knew you 
would. You never came any more. That ’s 
all.” 


The Lost Name 


267 


Elizabeth stopped speaking. She moved as if 
to rise, but David’s hand fell suddenly upon both 
of hers, and rested there with a hard, heavy 
pressure. 

He said her name, “Elizabeth!” and then 
again, “Elizabeth!” His voice had a bewildered 
sound. 

Elizabeth lifted her eyes and looked at him. 
His face was working, twitching, his eyes strained 
as if to see something beyond the line of vision. 
He looked past Elizabeth as he had done 
in his dream. All at once he spoke in a 
whisper. 

“I remembered, it ’s gone again — but I remem- 
bered.” 

“The dream?” 

“No, not the dream. I don’t know — it’s 
gone. It was a name — your name — but it ’s 
gone again.” 

“My name?” 

“Yes — it ’s gone.” 

“It does n’t matter, David.” 

Elizabeth had begun to tremble, and all at once 
he became aware of it. 

“Why do you tremble?” 

Elizabeth was at the end of her strength. She 


268 


The Fire Within 


had done what she had to do. If he would let her 
go 

“ David, let me go,” she said, only just above 
her breath. 

Instead, he put out his other hand and touched 
her on the breast. It was like the Dream. But 
they were not in the Dream any more. They 
were awake. 

David leaned slowly forward, and Elizabeth 
could not turn away her eyes. They looked at 
each other, and the thing that had happened 
before came upon them again. A momentary 
flash — memory — revelation — truth. The moment 
passed. This time it left behind it, not darkness, 
but light. They were in the light, because love is 
of the light. 

David put his arms about Elizabeth. 

‘‘Mine!” he said. 


THE END 


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